In due course a small, clean-shaven man who walked with a slight limp surveyed the big chestnut with a shrewd, bright eye. This was Rennie's friend, the ex-jockey.
"Like his looks, Pete?" Rennie queried.
Pete, whose surname was Dorgan, nodded. "I like 'em some ways," he admitted. "He's got power to burn, and that'll give him speed—some. In five miles he'd be runnin' strong, but he might not be fast enough at a mile. 'Course, I don't know nothin' about what he'll be up ag'inst. What time has this race been run in, other years?" When Angus told him he grunted. "Good as that? Must be some real horses here. You're sure he ain't stolen? I wouldn't want to be mixed up in a deal like that, even if I am out of the game."
"He ain't stolen. This old Injun is as straight as you are."
"Well, I've been called crooked before now," Dorgan grinned. "But if you say so, Dave, I guess this old boy is all right. You can tell him I'll put the horse in the best shape I can, and maybe I'll ride him. If I don't, I'll get a boy. But I ain't goin' to live with a bunch of Injuns while I'm doin' it, and the horse has to be taken out of here." He eyed Paul Sam's primitive stable arrangements with disgust. "He's ruinin' his feet."
Paul Sam made no objection, and the big chestnut which Dorgan christened "Chief," was brought to the Mackay ranch. There he was installed in a disused building which lay behind the other stables and some distance from them.
"The way I get it," said Dorgan, "we better keep this horse under cover as long as we can. From what you say, there ain't been no class to the hay-hounds the Siwashes has started other years, and so an Injun entry is a joke entry. Nobody knows this horse, and seein' him the way he is now, not many'd pipe what he really is unless they was wised up. But you let some of these wise local birds lamp him after I've had him a couple of weeks, and they might smell something. Then I may's well keep dark myself. Not that I'm ashamed of myself more'n I ought to be, but somebody might remember me, though I ain't ridden for years. So I'll be an extra hand you've hired, see? Me and Chief will take our work-outs on the quiet as long as we can."
So Dorgan gave the horse his exercise on a little prairie a mile back of the ranch. As he had predicted, a couple of weeks made a vast difference in his appearance. Groomed till his chestnut coat was gleaming, dappled satin, his feet trimmed and cleaned and polished and shod by Dorgan himself, fed bright, clean grain and savory mashes and bedded to the knees nightly in sweet straw, Chief tasted for the first time the joys of the equine aristocracy to which he belonged.
But somehow the rumor that the Indians had a mysterious horse and rider got going, and one day Dorgan, who had been to town, came to Angus.
"Say," he said, "do you know a hard-faced bird, near as big as you are but older and heavier, that looks like a bad actor and likes the juice? He seems to be the king-pin of a bunch of young rye-hounds that think they're sports."
"Do you mean Blake French?"
"That's the outfit that owns this Flambeau horse, ain't it?"
"Yes. What about it?"
"Nothin' much. He'd have bought me a lot of friendship sealers if I'd let him. Then there was a feller, name of Garland, that thinks he's a warm member, and claimed he'd seen me ridin' long ago when he was a kid. He might of, at that. They sorter fished around to find out what I was doin' here. But they know, all right. If I was crooked I b'lieve I could do business with them two."
"I've never heard that they would do anything crooked. Of course they might try to find out all they could."
"If I'd taken all the crooked money I've been offered," said Dorgan, "and got away with it, I wouldn't need to be worryin' about apples and chickens now. I know when a feller's feelin' me out, same as I know when a couple of young burglars is holdin' a pocket open for me to ride into."
"But they don't know if Paul Sam's horse can run or not."
"That's their trouble. But if they can fix somebody, they don't need to care."
A couple of days after this, Angus, coming around Chief's quarters from the rear, overheard Dorgan earnestly assuring Kathleen French that Chief was quarantined for threatened influenza; and further that he was a saddle horse, pure and simple, with no more speed than a cow. With a glance at Angus which was intended to convey grave warning, he beat a retreat.
"Who is the remarkable liar?" Kathleen asked.
"Is he that? His name is Pete Dorgan."
"If you have a deadline on the place you ought to put up a sign," she told him. "How did I know I was butting in?"
"How do you know it now?"
"Because I have average intelligence. I didn't know there was a horse here at all. I was looking for Jean, and when I saw a perfectly splendid, strange animal, naturally I stopped to look at him. I also saw a little, flat pigskin saddle, and I saw that the horse was wearing plates. Then this Dorgan appeared and lied straight ahead without the least provocation, looking me in the face without the quiver of an eyelash. I didn't ask him a single question, I give you my word.
"There's no special reason why you shouldn't. The horse isn't mine. But the fact is, his owner and Dorgan aren't saying anything about him."
"Angus! he isn't—but no, of course he isn't!"
"Isn't what?"
"A ringer. I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't go into anything like that if you knew it."
Angus laughed. "He's no ringer. He belongs to Paul Sam." He told her as much as he thought necessary of the animal's history.
"Thanks for the confidence," she nodded. "I'll say nothing about it. If you had treated me as Dorgan did, I should have felt hurt."
"He didn't know you. He thinks this horse will give you a race."
"What, beat Flambeau!" she cried. "Nonsense!"
"Well, he seems to be a pretty good horse."
"Then I'll bet you an even hundred now!" she challenged.
"No, no. I don't want to bet with you."
"Oh, you needn't have any scruples. The boys take my money—when they can get it."
"But I don't think I'll bet at all."
"Then what on earth are you doing with the horse?" she asked in frank astonishment.
"He is just stabled here."
"But I don't see why you won't bet if you think the horse has a good chance."
"Because I can't afford to lose."
"But that makes it all the more exciting."
"It makes it all the more foolish," Angus told her grimly. "It is all very well for you; you people can afford to play with money."
"How do you know we can?"
"Well, I've always heard so."
"And therefore it must be so." She switched the grass, looking down. "Well, whether it is or not, we're born gamblers—the whole family. Perhaps we can't help it. But sometimes—sometimes I wish it were different. I wish the boys would work as you work; and—and that I were a home girl with a nice big brother."
"You have enough big brothers," Angus told her. "I think myself it would do them no harm to work, but it is none of my business. I did not mean to seem curious about your affairs. Anyway, some day you will be marrying and leaving them."
"Perhaps," she admitted. "The chief end of—woman! Oh, I suppose so—some day. Well?"
"That's all. You will likely marry somebody with plenty of money, and then you will go away."
"Do you mean that I shall marry for money?"
"No, but if your husband has it, it will be no drawback. Lots of these young fellows who go to your ranch are well fixed—or will be when somebody dies."
"How nicely you arrange my future. Which one of them am I to marry, please?"
"Whichever one you love best."
"What on earth do you know about love, Angus Mackay?"
"Nothing at all. But that is why people get married, isn't it?"
"I think I have heard so," she said dryly. "Will that be why you will marry—some day?"
"Why else?"
"Oh, Scotch! A question with a question! Would you marry for any other reason?"
"I would not marry a girl because she had money," said Angus, "because the money would not be worth the nuisance of her if I didn't love her."
Kathleen laughed at this frank statement, and went to find Jean. Angus' reflections as to Kathleen were broken by the reappearance of Dorgan.
"What did I tell you?" said the little man. "I guess my dope was poor, huh!"
"Your dope on what?"
"On what? On them fellers I was talkin' to yesterday. Now here's French's sister comes on the scout. When I seen her she was sure gettin' an eyeful of Chief."
"She was looking for my sister. She told me how it happened."
"I'll gamble she did," Dorgan returned skeptically, "and I s'pose you fell for it, like young fellers do. When a crook can't get the real dope any other way, he plants a woman. That skirt——"
"Go easy," Angus warned him. "That young lady is a friend of mine."
"She ain't a friend of mine, and I got my own idea of what she was here for. If you don't like it I'll keep it to myself."
"You're barking up the wrong tree," Angus laughed. "She's as straight as they make them. She says you're a remarkable liar, if you want to know."
Dorgan grinned. "I said she was wise. Maybe my work was a little raw, but she took me by surprise, and I was just doin' the best I could off-hand."
"You can't keep the horse cached forever."
"That's all right. There's no use tellin' what you know most times. This Flambeau from what I hear will carry a whole bunch of money for them Frenches. They're givin' as good as five to three against the field. That means they got the field sized up, or fixed. But they ain't got a line on Chief, nor they ain't got me fixed, so their calculations has been clean upset. Somebody's been watchin' me exercise, the last day or two, but whoever it is ain't had a chance to clock nothin', because they don't know the distances, and anyway I didn't let him out. They ain't wise to him, but they're wise to me. They dope it out I wouldn't be wastin' time on a horse that hadn't a chance. See what I'm gettin' at? A pill or the needle would put Chief out of the money."
"Nobody around here would do that," Angus told him.
"They wouldn't hey?" said Dorgan with sarcasm. "Let me tell you that right in the bushes is the place they put over stuff they couldn't get by with nowheres else. The things I've seen pulled at these little, local races would chill your blood. There's a bunch of murderers follows 'em up that'd hamstring a horse or sandbag an owner for a ten-case note."
"But—" Angus began.
"But—nothing," Dorgan interrupted with contempt. "Don't you s'pose I've been in the game long enough to know it? There'll be a bunch of tinhorns and a wreckin' crew of crooked racin' men with a couple of outlaw horses, all workin' together to skin the suckers. All them Frenches have to do is to say it's worth fifty to fix any horse. You can maybe tell me things about raisin' alfalfa, but not about racin'. When a woman gets into the game, it's serious. After this I'm goin' to sleep right here."
A few days before the race Dorgan moved Chief to one of half a dozen sheds on the fair grounds, which a load of lumber and another of straw made comfortable. There he dwelt with him, giving him easy exercise and sizing up the other horses.
"Outside this Flambeau there ain't much to worry about," he concluded. "Only with a field of seven, like there will be in this race, there's always the chance of something going wrong. Chief ain't wise to starts, nor to running in company."
"You catch 'um good start," Paul Sam advised.
"You're a wise Injun," Dorgan told him. "I'll try to be somewhere's on the line—or in front of it. Still, I ain't quite burglar-proof."
At the fair Angus had a number of exhibits of ranch produce, cattle, and his team of young drivers. The night before the race he had been arranging his exhibits. This done he had supper, strolled around for an hour, and then returned to the National House, which was the leading hotel, in search of a man to whom he hoped to sell a few head of cattle. He got the number of his prospective customer's room, but apparently he had been misinformed, for the room held a poker game in full blast, the players being Gavin and Gerald French, two somewhat hard-faced strangers, and a young fellow about his own age whom he set down as an Englishman.
The French boys nodded a greeting.
"Hold on a minute," said Gerald as Angus would have withdrawn. "I want to see you."
So Angus remained, and standing behind Gerald watched the play.
One of the strangers dealt. On the draw Gerald held a full house; and yet he dropped out, as did Gavin. The Englishman who stayed lost most of his remaining stack. But the winning stranger did not seem elated. He scowled at the pot as he took it in.
Wondering what intuition had bade Gerald lay down a full—for the pot had been won by fours—Angus continued to watch the game. The deal came to Gerald, who riffled the cards.
"Time we had a drink," said he and rising brushed past Angus to touch a wall button. Reseating himself he began to deal.
One of the strangers opened. Gerald, as Angus could see, had nothing. Nevertheless he stayed, drawing three cards. Everybody stayed. The betting was brisk, and the pile of chips in the center grew. Gerald was the first to drop out. One of the strangers and the Englishman followed suit. Thus it was between the remaining stranger and Gavin. They proceeded to raise each other.
"If the limit was something worth while," said the stranger, "I could get proper action on this hand."
"It's high enough for these ranchers," the other stranger observed. "They don't like a hard game."
"What would you like?" Gavin queried.
"If you're game to lift it, you can come after a hundred."
Gavin, reaching into his pocket, brought forth a sheaf of currency from which he stripped two bills.
"Anda hundred," he said.
The stranger's breath sucked hard through his teeth. His companion glanced swiftly and suspiciously at him and then at Gerald.
"This started out as a friendly game," he observed, a note of warning in his voice.
"Well, there's his hundred," the player said. "What you got? Come on—show 'em." He leaned forward.
"All the bullets," Gavin replied. He spread four aces face up, while his other hand reached for the pot.
The other stranger leaned forward, also, peering at the cards. Suddenly he started and his hand shot toward them. But Gavin's fell on it, pinning it to the table.
"What are you trying to do?" he demanded. Beneath the coldness of his tone there was something hard and menacing. The stranger wrenched to free his hand. It remained pinned in Gavin's grasp.
"I want to see those cards!" he cried with an oath.
"Where do you come in?" Gavin asked. "You didn't call me."
"But I did," the losing stranger broke in. "I want to see those cards, and I'm going to."
"You're looking at them now," Gavin pointed out.
Gerald coolly swept up the cards.
"I dealt them," he said. "They look all right to me. Four aces and a club seven. Take a look at them, Mackay, and see if this man has anything to kick at."
Thus appealed to, Angus took the cards. "I don't see anything wrong with them," he said.
"You don't, hey?" cried the loser. "I'm wise to you now. You did it, did you?"
"Did what?" Angus queried.
"Slipped him a cold deck!" the other roared. "You did it when he got up to press the button."
"I did nothing of the sort!" Angus denied in amazement.
"You're a liar!" the other shrilled. "D'ye think we're going to be cold-decked by a bunch of hicks?" He turned to Gavin. "Come through with that money, or——"
"Or what?" Gavin asked.
By way of bluff or otherwise the stranger resorted to the old, cogent argument. His right hand dropped swiftly. But as it did so Gavin thrust the table forward violently. The man went backward, chair and all. Gerald pounced on him like a leopard, caught his arm and twisted a short-barreled gun from the clutching fingers. Gavin, with equal quickness and less effort, caught and disarmed the other man, who without a word had reached for his gun to back his friend.
"Bad actors, you two!" Gerald sneered. "Gamblers—gunmen. Shocking! What'll we do with them, Gan?"
"Let 'em go," said the big man contemptuously, releasing his captive and flipping the cartridges from the gun. "Beat it, you blighters, and pick out easier marks next time."
"You big crook!" snarled the owner of the gun, "I'll get you——"
He never finished the sentence, for Gavin was on him. He caught him by the clothes above his breast, lifted him clear and slammed him back against the wall. There he held him, pinned with one hand, like a moth in a show-case.
"Get me, will you?" he growled hoarsely. "If I hit you, you cheap tinhorn, you'd never get me or anybody else. Try to get me, and I'll break your back over my knee. Like this!"
He plucked the man away from the wall as if he had been a doll, and threw him, back down, across his knee. For an instant he held him, and then set him on his feet. The man's face was the dead gray of asbestos paper.
"Git!" Gavin commanded. "Don't fool around here or make any more bluffs. Get out of town."
When the two strangers had gone, Gerald laughed gently.
"This breaks up our game, I guess," he said. "By the way—Angus Mackay—Mr. Chetwood."
The two young men shook hands. Chetwood was a long-limbed young fellow with the old-country color fresh in his cheeks, frank blue eyes with a baby stare which would have been a credit to any ingenue, but which held an occasional twinkle quite at variance with their ordinary expression. Angus was inclined to like him. Chetwood, on his part, eyed the lean, hard, sinewy bulk of Angus with admiration.
"I say, what was all the row about?" he asked Gerald. "They accused you of cheating, what?"
"Old game," said Gerald carelessly. "They went up against an unbeatable hand, lost more than they could afford, and tried to run a bluff. They were both crooks, anyway."
"But if you knew that, why the deuce did you play with them?"
"You can't be too particular if you want a game," Gerald laughed.
"You do things so dam' casual out here," Chetwood complained whimsically. "Now when they tried to draw revolvers—'guns' you call them out here—I should have given them in charge."
"Too much trouble and no police force handy," said Gerald. "But I wanted to ask you about that horse you've been training for the Indians, Mackay. Are you betting on him?"
"I haven't been training him, and I don't think I'll bet. The Indians will, though."
"Tell 'em we'll take all the money they have, at evens."
"Even money against the field?"
"Exactly. You'd better take a little yourself."
But Angus refused, principally because he had no money to lose. They went down to the lobby. This was crowded. Blake French, standing on a chair, was flourishing a sheaf of bills, offering even money as his brothers had done. He had been drinking, and his remarks seemed to be directed at some certain person or persons.
Looking over the heads of the crowd, Angus saw Dorgan and Paul Sam standing together. The old Indian, bare-headed, his gray braids hanging in front of either shoulder, wearing a blanket coat, skin-tight leggins and brand-new moccasins, made an incongruous figure. The two, seeing Angus, made their way toward him.
"That bird," said Dorgan nodding toward Blake, "is makin' a cinch offer. Take all you can get. The old boy, here, was just waitin' for you to hold the bets."
"S'pose you hold money, me bet him now," Paul Sam confirmed.
"Come on, come on!" Blake vociferated from his perch. "Put up a bet on your—cayuse. Here's real money. Come and get it!"
Dorgan turned to face him.
"You're makin' a whole lot of noise on that handful of chicken feed," he observed.
"Come and take it then," Blake retorted. "They tell me you used to ride for white men once."
"Well, that never gaveyouno first call on me!" Dorgan shot back.
Somebody laughed, and Blake's temper, always ugly, flared up.
"Keep a civil tongue in your head, you down-and-outer, or I'll throw you out!" he rasped.
But Dorgan was not awed by the threat, nor by the size of the man who made it.
"Your own tongue ain't workin' none too smooth," he retorted. "Throw me out, hey? About all you'll throw will be a D. T. fit. A hunk of mice bait, that's about what you are, color and all."
With an oath Blake leaped from his chair, sending it crashing behind him. Perfectly game, little Dorgan crouched to meet the rush, in an attitude which showed a certain experience.
But Angus, cursing the luck which seemed to lead him athwart Blake, stepped between them.
"Hold on, now," he said. "You mustn't——"
"Get out of my way!" Blake roared.
"Now wait!" Angus insisted pacifically. "It wouldn't——"
But Blake struck at him. Angus dodged and clinched. But as he began to shove Blake back Gavin's great arms were thrust between them.
"Let go, Mackay," he said. "Quit it!" he commanded Blake.
"I'll show that runt he can't insult me!" the latter frothed. "Yes, and Mackay, too. Turn me loose, Gan——"
"You can't beat up their jockey before the race," his brother told him. "Too raw. Mackay? Mackay'd make a mess of you. Quit it, I tell you."
"I'll——" Blake began. But Gavin suddenly cursed him.
"Do you want me to handle you?" he demanded. In his voice came the hoarse, growling note it had held when he had spoken to the man pinned against the wall. His hand clamped his brother's wrist and his eyes blazed. Half drunk as he was, Blake apparently recognized these danger signals.
"Let go," he said. "I won't start anything."
His brother eyed him for a moment and turned to Paul Sam.
"How much do you want to bet?"
For answer the Indian pulled forth a huge roll of bills bound by a buckskin thong. They represented sales of steers, cayuses, skins of marten, beaver, bear and lynx, bounties on coyotes and mountain lion.
"Bet um all!" he announced succinctly.
"See what he's got," Gavin said to Angus, "and we'll cover it."
Angus sorted out the currency. It was in bills of various denominations and various stages of dilapidation. The amount totaled a little over twelve hundred dollars.
"We'll put up a check," said Gerald.
But when this was explained to Paul Sam, he interposed a decided negative. He himself was putting up real, tangible money, that could be handled and counted. Similar money must be put up against it. And when this was procured, with considerable difficulty at that time of night, he would not hear of it being put in the hotel safe, but insisted that Angus should hold it literally.
"Ha-a-lo put um in skookum box," he declared positively. "Me know you. S'pose you keep money, s'pose me win, me catch um sure. S'pose him put in skookum box, mebbe so me no catch um. You keep um money."
Reluctantly, Angus accepted its custody, but privately he made up his mind to deposit it in the safe as soon as the old Indian had gone. Soon after, Chetwood drew him aside.
"I've a fancy to have a little on the old buster's horse," he announced. "What do you say?"
"I don't say anything; it's your money."
"Quite so. But what sort of a run do you think I'll get for it?"
"The best the horse has in him, whatever that is."
"Then I've a notion to have a go at it."
"Do you know anything about the horses?"
"Not a thing," Chetwood replied cheerfully. "In the expressive language of the country, I'm playing a hunch. That old Indian takes my eye, rather."
"He's foxy enough. But the Indians have entered a horse every year, and never won yet."
"But a chap can't lose all the time," Chetwood observed. "And then the Frenches are offering even money against the field. No end sporting of 'em, but risky. That little ex-jockey knows his business?"
"I think so. Perhaps you'd like to have a talk with him and see the horse. He's going out now, and we'll go with him, if you care to."
"Thanks," Chetwood acknowledged. "That's very decent of you, Mackay. I'd like it very much."
The road to the track, which was nearly a mile beyond the town, was lonely and dark. Most of the way it ran through a wooded flat, and the tree shadows overlay it with denser gloom. But at last they emerged from the trees upon the natural prairie which held track and fair grounds. Along one side was a row of sheds, and here and there a lantern gleamed. Toward one of these lights Dorgan led them.
Dave Rennie, reading beside a lantern, nodded silently and, introduced to Chetwood, regarded him with disfavor, as a remittance man, one of the balloon-pants brigade.
"Everything all right, Davy?" Dorgan asked.
"Quiet now. There was a row down among the sheds a while ago. A pair of drunks mixed it, till we pulled 'em apart."
Dorgan picked up the lantern and illuminated a stall at the rear. Chief seemed uneasy, sidling away from the light, snorting and shaking his head. Chetwood moved with him, inspecting him closely.
"I should say that he has plenty of staying power," he observed. "At the distance I'd back him rather than any weedy, greyhound stock."
"And you'd be a good judge," Dorgan agreed, regarding Chetwood with more respect. Chief blew noisily, shaking his head and rubbing his nose against the feed-box. "How long's he been actin' that way, Dave?"
"Maybe an hour. I thought it might be a fly or a bit of foxtail in his feed."
"Not a bit of foxtail in his hay or beddin'. Might be a fly. Hold the lantern a minute."
He passed his hand over Chief's muzzle, and the horse thrust against his body, twisting and shaking his head. Dorgan examined his ears.
"Seems all right. What's worryin' you, old boy?"
The horse nosed him again, and exhaled a deep breath. Chetwood uttered an exclamation.
"How was his wind to-day when you exercised him?"
"Wind? Good. Why?"
"No cold—no stoppage of the nostrils?"
"No. What you gettin' at?"
"Listen to his breathing. There's something about it—not clear—a little, straining wheeze——"
Eyes narrowing, vibrant with quick suspicion, Dorgan took the horse's head on his shoulder and leaned his ear to the nostrils, listening intently. Suddenly he swore, a single, tremendous expletive, deep with venom, turning on Rennie.
"Did you go to see that fight you was speakin' of?"
"Sure. But I wasn't away five minutes."
"Was the horse uneasy before that?"
"I didn't notice it till I come back," Rennie admitted, and Dorgan swore again.
"They got to us somehow. Wait now. Hold still, Chief. So—o, lad! Quiet, boy!" Gently he laid his face against the muzzle. "By——, it's sponges!" he exclaimed suddenly.
"Sponges?" Angus repeated, puzzled.
"Sure—sponges! One of the bloody, dirtiest, meanest, surest-fire tricks in the whole box. A little, soft sponge shot up each nostril. A horse can't blow 'em out. He can breathe all right when he's quiet, but when he starts to run he can't get wind enough through 'em to feed his lungs, and they choke him off. It don't take a minute to work the trick on a quiet horse. It can be put over five minutes or a day before a race. A rider can do his best and get no speed. A crooked owner can fix his own horse and tell his boy to ride to win. That's what somebody's put over on us, and I'll gamble on it. Dave, fetch me my little black bag."
The bag contained a kit of veterinary instruments, and from them Dorgan selected a pair of long, slender forceps. But Chief objected and had to be thrown. Angus sat on his head while Dorgan worked. In the end he got the sponges, and Chief released, struggled up snorting, but apparently relieved and glad to be able to fill his lungs full once more.
"And a devil of a note a night before a race!" Dorgan commented. "Some horses it would put clean up in the air. But I'll bet Chief will fix this French bunch now, in spite of their dirty work."
"What makes you think they did it?"
"Ain't they givin' even money against the field? That means they think they got us fixed. That big stiff that tried to beat me up to-night would have fixed me if he could. They framed that fight to get Dave away from here. Well, there's no use makin' a roar, because we got nothin' on them. We're lucky to get wise." He nodded to Chetwood. "I dunno's we would if it hadn't been for you. I didn't think you knew a thing about the game, but I guess you do."
"Even if I am a pilgrim?" Chetwood laughed. "But you know we have horses and a few races in England."
"The smoothest crook I ever come across in the racin' game was an Englishman," Dorgan admitted generously.
Chetwood laughed at this ambiguous testimonial, and Angus liked him the better for it. Leaving Dorgan and Rennie to look after the horse, they took their townward way. The darkness seemed more intense. They stumbled on the deeply-rutted road.
"We should have borrowed a lantern," Chetwood observed. "The bally trees make it black as the devil. I think—Look out, Mackay! 'Ware foot-pads!"
As he spoke a dry stick cracked sharply. Angus whirled to his right. Three black figures were almost on top of them. He had no time to dodge or brace himself. An arm swung around his neck, and he got his chin down just in time. He grasped the arm, tore it down across his shoulder, and would no doubt have broken it with the next wrench; but just then something descended on his head, and he went down unconscious in the dust of the trail.
He came back to the world of affairs with a ripple of artistic English swearing in his ears, and sat up.
"That you, Chetwood?" he asked.
"Right-o, old chap!" Chetwood replied, in tones of relief. "You've been in dreamland so long I was afraid the blighters had jolly well bashed in your coco."
"What happened?" Angus demanded.
"Well, it's a bit thick to me," the Englishman admitted. "There were four of the beggars, and three of them went for you while the other gave me all I could do. They floored you, and then rapped me on the head with a sandbag, I should say." He felt his cranium tenderly. "Laid us both out side by side like a pair of blinking babes in the wood. I came around first, and that's some minutes ago. You're sure you're quite all right, old man?"
But struck by a sudden, horrible suspicion, Angus put his hand in his pocket and gasped.
"What's the matter?"
"Matter enough," he replied. "They have rustled all the money I was holding for Paul Sam and the French boys!"
"My aunt!" Chetwood ejaculated. "We must have been followed."
Angus nodded gloomily, cursing his own folly. Why had he been such a fool to carry nearly twenty-four hundred dollars in his pocket? He had fully intended to deposit it in the safe, but had neglected to do so. Now it was gone, and naturally he was responsible.
"I guess we were," he agreed. "You didn't recognize any of them, of course?"
"No. Too dark. I say, Mackay, this is beastly rotten luck."
"Worse than that for me. I'll have to make good."
"Yes, 'fraid you will. I say—you'll pardon me, I'm sure—but in the expressive idiom of the country, will it throw a crimp into you to do it?"
"Will it?" Angus replied grimly. "I have no more than three hundred dollars in the bank, and it keeps me scratching gravel with both feet to make ends meet on the ranch and pay what I have to pay. It puts me in a devil of a hole, if you want to know."
"Hard lines!" Chetwood sympathized. "In the breezy phraseology of the country, it's sure hell. But buck up, old chap! Let me be your banker."
"You mean you'll lend me the money?" Angus exclaimed.
"Like a shot."
"Are you that strong?"
"Strong?" Chetwood queried.
"I mean that well fixed financially."
"Another delightful idiom!" Chetwood laughed. "Must remember it. Well, I have some money to invest, and this looks like my chance."
"It looks to me like a mighty poor investment," Angus told him. "I couldn't pay you for the Lord knows how long."
"Shouldn't expect you to."
"No, I can't do it," Angus decided, "though it's mighty white of you, and I am just as much obliged. I'll get it from somebody who is in the loaning business."
"Back your paper, if you like."
"Nor that either. I will kill my own snakes."
"Obstinate beggar!" Chetwood commented. "Highland blood, and all that sort of thing." He was silent for a moment. "By George, I've got it!" he exclaimed. "I know how we'll turn the corner. Simplest thing in the world. I'll bet the amount you've lost, we win it, and there we are. Rippin' idea, what!"
"Suppose we don't win?"
"Don't be a bally pessimist. It's more than a sportin' chance; it's a sound declaration. I'll have a go at it."
Seeing that he was thoroughly in earnest, Angus endeavored to dissuade him, and at last apparently succeeded.
"But we'll find some way out," he said. "Never say die. No surrender. Yard-arm to yard-arm, and keep the ruddy flag flying, Mackay."
But Angus slept little that night. The problem of raising the money worried him. He thought he could get it from Mr. Braden, but he was not sure. And what worried him just as much was that eventually it must come out of the ranch. His carelessness had saddled it with a fresh load of debt. Then there was Jean. Whatever happened, her education must not be interrupted, her way must be paid. He would see to that if he had to sell every head of stock on the range. The first pale dawn was rousing the birds to sleepy twitterings when he finally forgot his problems in troubled slumber.
Mr. Braden regarded Angus Mackay severely across his desk. "Tut, tut, tut!" he said. "A very bad business, indeed. Bad company. Evil communications, horse racing, gambling. Very bad!"
"But all I did was to hold the stakes," Angus protested.
"That was just what you didn't do," Mr. Braden pointed out. "It is a large sum."
"I know that, but I have to have it. I am good for the money. Chetwood offered to lend it to me or endorse my note, but——"
"Chetwood, hey?" said Mr. Braden with sudden interest. "Why should he do that?"
"No reason at all. That's why I wouldn't let him."
"Do you know what he is going to do in this country?"
"He spoke of ranching."
"Ha!" said Mr. Braden. "Has he bought any land yet?"
"I don't think so."
"He should be careful," said Mr. Braden. "He should go to some reliable person. Too many irresponsible dealers. He might get—er—stung. I have some very attractive propositions. Did he mention any amount that he was prepared to invest?"
"No. He's going to look around before he buys."
"Glad to show him around," said Mr. Braden heartily. "Bring him to me, Angus, and he won't regret it. Neither—er—neither will you."
"How about lending me this money?" Angus asked.
"Oh—ah—yes, the money. H'm. Well, under the circumstances I will advance it on your note. Not business, but to helpyouout——Well, don't forget about Chetwood. Bring him in. He might get into wrong hands, you know. Bring him in, my boy, and you won't regret it."
With the settlement of the money question Angus was greatly relieved. He was saddled with an additional debt, but at least he was in a position to pay the winner, which as he looked at it was the main thing.
With Jean he went out to the track early in the afternoon. Here and there in the crowd he noted the tall figures of the French brothers. Apparently, they were still taking all the money they could get. On their way to the stand to secure seats, they came upon Chetwood, who was eying the motley crowd whose costumes ranged from blankets to Bond Street coats, with pure delight. But being introduced to Jean, the young Englishman lost all interest in the crowd, and accompanied them. Kathleen French waved greeting to them, and they found seats beside her. It appeared that she had met Chetwood.
"Well, Angus, do you want any Flambeau money?" she laughed.
"I wouldn't bet much, if I were you," he advised her seriously.
"I will bet every dollar I can. That's what the boys are doing, and they're good judges of a horse."
"I think Dorgan is a better one."
"What does he know about Flambeau?" she asked.
"He seems to be satisfied with knowing Chief."
A little line came between Kathleen's eyes, but she shook her head. "Flambeau carries all the money we can get up."
Angus having given her his advice said no more, and went to have a final look at Chief.
"I've had Dave bet my roll for me," Dorgan told him. "I ain't a regular rider no more, and I need the money. Barring accidents, Chief wins handy."
"The Frenches are just as sure of Flambeau."
"Yeh," Dorgan replied calmly. "I just seen the boy burglar that's ridin' for 'em. There's tracks he couldn't work on, but I ain't makin' no kick. If he puts anything over on me, it'll be new stuff. But I guess they figure they got the race won in the stable."
When Flambeau came on the track, Angus admitted to himself that he justified Kathleen's confidence. Knowing quite well what he had to do, the horse was eager. Up on his withers crouched a hard-faced boy in maroon and silver, who eyed the other horses and riders with cool contempt.
But Chief was being led through the gate, and up on his back flashed Dorgan's old black-and-yellow silk. The big horse stepped forward, looking at track and crowd with surprised and inquiring but quite calm eyes. Dorgan patted his neck and spoke to him, and he came past the stand in the long, singing, stretching canter which was deceptive by its very ease. Angus looked at Kathleen.
"He's a grand horse!" she admitted, and once more the little line lay between her eyes.
It became evident at the start that it was a fight between Dorgan and French's boy. Neither would concede the slightest advantage. Both were warned. As they wheeled back, after half a dozen abortive starts, French's boy was spitting insults from the corner of his mouth, and old Dorgan was grinning at him. Side by side, watching each other like boxers, they wheeled and came down on the line. Crouched, arms extended, the harried starter caught the bunch fair at last.
"G'wan!" he yelled as his flag swept. "G'wan outa here!" And the dust of the flurrying hoofs hid him.
At the turn Flambeau was running third, and slightly behind and a little wide and thus out of a possible danger zone, was the black and yellow. But in the stretch on the first round Flambeau had drawn level with the leading horse. As they swept past the stand, Chief, still behind and well out, was running like a machine. Dorgan turned his face, twisted in a grin, up to the stand.
"By George, the old boy thinks he has the race on toast!" Chetwood exclaimed.
"He can't catch Flambeau now!" Kathleen asserted.
But to Angus came the recollection of a piece of the old jockey's wisdom.
"Not every jock that knows pace is a good jock," he had said; "but no jock is a good jock that don't. If you know pace and know you're makin' the time, you don't need to worry. Your leaders will come back to you. I never was no star rider, but pace is one thing I do know."
At the turn it was plainly a fight between the two horses. Angus saw French's boy turn his head, and then sit down to ride. Dorgan was motionless, lying flat, but the gap began to close. Angus glanced at Kathleen. She was leaning forward, tense, eager, her lips drawn straight, the color pinched from them. When he looked at the horses again Chief's head was lapping Flambeau. French's boy went to his bat. It rose and fell. At the same moment Dorgan seemed to sink into and become part of his horse's neck.
For an instant they seemed to be running together. Then steadily, surely, inch by inch the black and yellow crept past the maroon and silver, and the chestnut head appeared in front of the bay. Into the stretch they came, French's boy riding it out and fighting it out to the last inch with Flambeau game to the core under terrific punishment. But as they thundered past the stand Dorgan, his ear hugging Chief's neck, was looking back beneath his arm, and there was clear daylight between the horses.
Once more Angus glanced at Kathleen. She smiled as she met his eye.
"Well, you were right," she said.
"I hope you didn't lose much."
"We—I lost—plenty, thanks. Anyway, I'm proud of Flambeau. He was outrun, but he ran game to the last foot."
With Chetwood, Angus went to see Dorgan. On the way they came upon Gavin and Gerald French. The latter was tearing up a bunch of tickets. At sight of them he laughed, tossing the fragments aloft.
"Good paper—once," he observed. "Give you a check to-night, Chetwood."
"Give you mine, too," said Gavin, lighting his pipe. "Good race, wasn't it?"
"Rippin'," Chetwood agreed. "No hurry about settlements, you know."
"Oh, we may as well clean up," Gerald returned carelessly. "See you later."
"So you did bet," Angus observed to his companion as they moved on.
"I told you it was a sound scheme to get back what you lost. I was jolly right, too. The money is quite at your service if you need it."
"I've raised the money, thanks all the same."
"In the quaint idiom of the country, far be it from me to horn in, but if I'm not impertinent, how did you do it?"
"Borrowed it on my note."
"Oh, my sacred aunt!" Chetwood groaned. "Now listen to reason, old chap. Here's this money, just the same as if I'd found what you lost. Take it and——"
"Cut it out!" Angus interrupted. "That doesn't go."
"What an obstinate beggar you are!" Chetwood observed in disappointment. "Well, we'll say no more about it, then. Do you know, I fancy the Frenches have come rather a cropper to-day. Of course, I don't know anything of their finances, but they were doing some dashed heavy betting. I fancied Miss French was hard hit."
"So did I," Angus agreed.
"Stood up to it like a major," Chetwood nodded. "Like to see 'em game."
They found Dorgan and Rennie rubbing and sponging the big horse, fussing over him like two hens with one chick.
"Well, I win me a whole barrel of kale," Dorgan chuckled. "I'll bet them Frenches will find her a hard winter unless they're well fixed." He eyed the big chestnut contemplatively for a moment. "And yet, mind you, he ain't a racin' horse," he said, "and don't you never fool yourself that he is. He can run now, and he'll always run as long as an eight-day clock, because he's got the works. But he's a weight carrier, that's what he is. He's a white man's horse, and I hate like poison to see him go back to them Lo's. Why don't you buy him? He'd carry your weight, and you'd be ridin' a real horse."
"I haven't the money," Angus replied regretfully, for in his heart he had coveted Chief from the time he had first mounted him.
Later, when he had handed over his winnings to Paul Sam, Angus drove homeward with Jean. The day had been fine, but in the west a blue-black sky, tinged with copper, bore promise of storm. He sent the team along at a lively clip to reach home before it should break.
He reflected that it had been a most expensive race for him. He did not know when he would be able to repay the money he had borrowed. But his crops were looking well, and his grain was almost ready to cut. His hay was already in. This year he could pay interest on Braden's mortgage. Jean would require more money. She was going to take a special, qualifying course, after which she would be able to teach. But he rather hoped she would not. Undoubtedly, she livened up the ranch.
Recently Jean had developed. She had grown not only physically but mentally. She was, Angus realized, a young woman. He had heard Chetwood ask permission to call at the ranch.
"How do you like this Chetwood?" he asked.
"Where did you meet him?" Miss Jean countered.
"With a couple of the French boys."
"Oh," said Miss Jean, who was under no delusions as to the boys aforesaid, "then he's apt to need his remittances."
"He seems a decent chap," her brother observed.
"He may be," Miss Jean returned nonchalantly, "but I'm not strong for these remittance men."
But the black cloud was mounting higher and higher. A gust of cold wind struck their faces. The dust of the trail rose in clouds, and behind it they heard the roar of the wind. Beyond that again, as they topped a rise and obtained a view, a gray veil, dense, opaque, seemed to have been let down.
"I'm afraid we can't make the ranch without a wetting," Angus said.
"And my best duds, too!" Jean groaned.
A quarter of a mile ahead there was the wreck of an abandoned shack which might suffice to keep Jean dry, and Angus sent his team into their collars; but they had not covered half the distance when with a hissing rush the gray barrier was upon them. And it was not rain, but hail!
The stones varied in size from that of buckshot to robin's eggs. Under the bombardment the dust puffed from the trail. The horses leaped and swerved at the pelting punishment, refusing to face it.
"Throw the lap-robe over your head," Angus told Jean, and thereafter was occupied exclusively with his team.
The colts swung around, cramping the wheel, almost upsetting the rig. Angus avoided a capsize by a liberal use of the whip, but with the punishment and the sting and batter of the icy pellets the animals were frantic. They began to run.
Not being able to help it, Angus let them go, having confidence in his harness and rig. Just there the road was good, without steep grades or sharp turns. He let them run for half a mile under a steady pull, and then after reminding them of their duty by the whip, he began to saw them down. Inside a few hundred yards he had them under control, and pulled them, quivering and all a-jump, under the shelter of two giant, bushy firs.
There Jean, peeping from beneath the robe, saw her brother by the colts' heads.
"Thanks for the ride!" she observed with mild sarcasm. Angus stiffened arm and body against a sudden lunge.
"Stand still, you!" he commanded, "or I'll club you till you'll be glad to!" And to Jean: "They wouldn't face it, and I don't blame them. I thought we were over once."
"Some hail!" Jean commented. "I never saw anything like it."
But already the storm was passing. Came a tail-end spatter of rain, and the sky began to clear. But as he wheeled his team out from shelter Angus' face was very grave, and a sudden thought struck his sister.
"Why," she exclaimed, her brown eyes opening wide, "do you suppose that hail struck the ranch?"
"I don't know," he replied, "but if it did, there won't be any threshing this year. It was bad."
As they drove on there was evidence of that. The grass was beaten flat, bushes were stripped of leaves. They passed the body of a young grouse which, caught in the open and confused, had been pelted to death. It was without doubt very bad hail.
When they came in sight of the ranch, Jean, unable to restrain her impatience, rose to her feet and, holding her brother's shoulder, took a long look. He felt her hand tighten, gripping him hard. Then she dropped back into the seat beside him.
"It—it hit us!" she said.
In a few moments Angus could see for himself. The fields of grain which, as they had driven away that morning, had rippled in the fresh wind, nodding full, heavy heads to the blue sky, were beaten flat. The heads themselves were threshed by the icy flail of the storm. He knew as he looked at the flattened ruin that there would be no threshing. He was "hailed out"!
Though the event assumed the proportions of a disaster, Angus said not a word. His black brows drew down and his mouth set hard. That was all. He felt Jean's arm go beneath his and press it.
"I'm sorry, old boy!" she said. "We needed the money, didn't we!"
"Yes," he replied.
"Oh, well, it can't be helped," she said. "I'll stay home this winter, of course. I can do that much to help, anyway."
"You will do nothing of the sort," her brother declared.
"But——"
"I will find the money. You will finish what you have begun, and that is all there is to it."
"I won't——"
"Youwill!" Angus said in a voice his sister had never heard before. "I say you will. You have a right to your education, and you shall have it. If I cannot give it to you, I am no man at all!"
When Angus came to investigate the damage wrought by the hail, he found it very complete. There would be no grain to thresh. It turned out that his had been the only ranch to suffer, the swath of the storm having missed his neighbors. It seemed the climax of the bad luck which had attended that twenty-four hours.
Jean, when she saw that her brother was absolutely determined that she should have another year of study, gave in, knowing nothing of the money he had borrowed. In the fortnight that elapsed before her departure, she was very busy, not only with her own preparations, but with preserving, pickling and mending for the ranch.
During this time Chetwood was an intermittent visitor. On these visits most of his time was spent in Jean's vicinity. Thus, on the eve of her departure, when she was very busy with a final batch of preserves, he appeared in the door. In his eyes, Jean, uniformed in a voluminous blue apron, her face flushed and her strong young arms bare, made a very charming picture. But Jean did not know that. She was extremely hot and somewhat sticky, and believed herself to be untidy. She felt all the discomfort and none of the dignity of labor. Hence her greeting was not cordial.
"I haven't time to stop," she said, indicating preserving kettle and jars with a wave of a dripping ladle. "You had better go and find the boys."
"Please let me stay. I like to watch you."
"I don't like being watched. You can't find much amusement in watching me work."
"Very jolly thing, work," Chetwood observed gravely.
"Bosh!" Miss Jean returned. She eyed her guest with pardonable irritation. "What do you know about work?" she demanded.
"Why—er—not a great deal, I'm afraid," he admitted.
"Then don't talk nonsense."
"But it isn't nonsense. I mean to say work keeps one occupied, you know."
"I notice it keeps me occupied," Miss Jean retorted, still more irritated by this profound observation.
"I mean one gets tired of doing nothing."
"Then why doesn't one do something?" she snapped.
Chetwood regarded her whimsically. "I'm afraid you mean me."
"Well," said Miss Jean, "I would like to see you busy at something, instead of looking so blessed cool and—and lazy."
"Oh, I say!"
"A man who doesn't work in this country," Jean stated severely, "is out of place."
"But a man who is out of a place doesn't work, does he?"
"I'm not joking," Miss Jean said with dignity. "I believe in work for everybody."
"So do I. Admire it immensely, I assure you."
"Bah!" Miss Jean ejaculated. "I don't believe you could do a day's work on a bet. You're like all the rest of—of——"
"Go on," Chetwood encouraged as she came to a stop in some confusion.
"Well, I will," said Miss Jean with sudden determination. "You're like all the rest of the remittance men. That's what I was going to say."
"One would gather that your opinion of what you call 'remittance men,' is not high."
"High!" Miss Jean's tone expressed much.
"H'm! Wasters, rotters, what?"
"And then some."
"And I'm like them, you think?"
"Oh, well, I didn't mean just that," Miss Jean admitted under cross-examination. "But youdon'twork, you know."
"Would you like me to work?"
"Why should I care whether you work or not?"
"Itisstrange," Chetwood murmured.
"Idon't!" snapped Miss Jean. "I don't care a—a darn! But I'll bet when I come back in the spring, if you're here you'll be doing just what you're doing now."
"I'm sorry you're going away. I thought if we were better acquainted we should be rather pals."
"We might be," Miss Jean admitted, "but we have our work to do—at least I have."
"I see plainly," said Chetwood, "that this demon of work will get me yet."
"Well, it won't hurt you a little bit," Miss Jean told him, and thereafter gave her exclusive attention to her preserving.
With the going of Jean, Angus buckled down in earnest. The next year must make up for his loss, and with this in view he began to clear more land. He threw himself into the labor, matching his strength and endurance against the tasks and the time. He worked his teams as mercilessly as he worked himself, and for the first time he began to drive others.
But to this speeding-up Turkey did not take kindly. By nature he was impatient of steady work, of control, of all discipline. He craved motion, excitement. He would ride from daylight to dark in any sort of weather rounding up stock, and enjoy himself thoroughly, but half a day behind a plow would send him into the sulks. He had broken a fine, young blue mare for his own use, and he took to being out at night, coming in late. He never told Angus where he went, but though the latter asked no questions the youngster could feel his disapproval. But as he possessed a vein of obstinacy and contrariness, this merely confirmed him in his course.
Angus maintained grim silence, repressing a strong desire to speak his mind. He recognized that the boy was becoming increasingly impatient of his authority, and desired to avoid a clash. As he let things go, Turkey took more and more rope. Angus learned accidentally that he consorted with a number of men older than himself, of whom Garland and Blake French were leading spirits. He knew that this was no company for the boy, but as reference to it would inevitably lead to unpleasantness, he put it off. But Turkey's deliberate slacking of work, just when it was most necessary, got on his nerves to an extent greater than he knew.
It was necessary to explain to Mr. Braden that he was unable to meet the mortgage payments. To his relief, the mortgagee made no difficulty about it. Indeed he was most genial.
"I heard you had been hit by the hail," he said. "Well, well, these things will happen, and I am not a harsh creditor. I will carry you along."
"That's very good of you," Angus acknowledged. "I am doing considerable breaking, and next year, if I don't bump into more hard luck, I'll be able to make a good payment."
Mr. Braden nodded. "Meanwhile there is something you can do for me. I am selling a piece of land to young Chetwood—about five hundred acres—but before closing the deal he wants your opinion of it."
Angus had not seen Chetwood for nearly a fortnight. He had not introduced him to Mr. Braden, but it appeared that they had become acquainted otherwise.
"Do I know the land?" he asked.
"I think so. It's about five miles from your ranch, on Canon Creek. There is a little cleared, and an old shack, but otherwise it is mostly unimproved. A splendid opportunity for an energetic young man to build up an excellent ranch."
"Do you mean the old Tetreau place?" This was a piece of land long since abandoned by a man of that name.
"Why—er—yes, I believe that is what it is called," Mr. Braden replied. "It's good, level land—most of it. I am offering it at a very low figure—all things considered—twenty dollars."
"And I particularly want this deal to go through," he concluded. "I should not mind paying you a little commission, my boy—say five per cent.
"I couldn't take a commission from you for valuing land for a buyer."
"Nonsense! Done every day. I might—er—stretch it a little. You are not to worry about that note of yours and the mortgage money, my boy. One good turn deserves another, hey?"
"I know the place," Angus said, "but I never thought of putting a value on it. How about water?"
"Tetreau had a record of eight hundred inches on Canon Creek. That goes with the place. And there's a good spring creek."
"That little spring wouldn't irrigate more than a few acres," Angus objected. "Seems to me I heard the old man quit because he couldn't bring water from the main creek."
Mr. Braden frowned. "Nonsense! Plenty of water. Tetreau was too lazy to run a ditch, that's all. Lots of water. Never mind that. The main thing is the land, which is good. I'll depend on you for a good report, and I'll tell Chetwood to run out and see you."
Angus rode home, none too well pleased with the prospect. He could just remember Felix Tetreau, a stooped old Frenchman, and he had a vague recollection that the latter had given up the place after a vain attempt to make water run up hill. But it was possible that he had been wrong in his levels, or, as Mr. Braden had suggested, too lazy to put in a ditch. Anyway, he had gone years before, and it appeared that Mr. Braden who owned a big block of land in that vicinity, had acquired his holding. The clearing had grown back to wild, which as there had not been much of it, mattered the less. But the question of water mattered a great deal.
For in that district water was asine qua non. Angus was no victim of the dry-farming delusion. Water and plenty of it, was essential in most years to grow paying crops. Therefore the value of the land, no matter what the quality of the soil, was conditional upon whether water could be brought upon it. It was that question which, in spite of Mr. Braden's airy dismissal, must be investigated in justice to Chetwood. Therefore when the latter came to the ranch, Angus took with them a hand level.
The land in question lay close to the foothills, and back of it a small, round mountain rose, but this was evidently not part of the parcel. The soil was a dark, sandy loam, which would give good result if properly fed, watered and cultivated. Angus pointed out these facts to the prospective buyer.
"Then you think it a good investment?" Chetwood queried.
"I did not say just that," Angus replied. "You have to add the cost of clearing to your purchase price. Then there will be your buildings and fencing and ditches. You have to figure on raising enough to pay interest on your total investment, and wages as well."
"I meant to ask you about the price. Is it fair, or shall I jew old Braden down a bit? Fancy I could, you know."
"The price is high—as land sells," Angus told him. "You can get good, wild land now for ten dollars an acre. Five years ago you could have got it for two dollars, and five years before that for fifty cents."
Chetwood whistled. "In the noble language of the country, I was about to be stung."
"Well," Angus explained, "if land values keep climbing, it might be a good investment, after all. I would not say it might not be. But you can buy just as good land cheaper."
"Then why does Braden ask so much?"
"I suppose he thinks he can get it."
Chetwood grinned. "In the terse vernacular of the land, 'I get you, Steve.' Shall I offer him ten dollars?"
"That would depend on the water supply."
"Oh, that's absolutely all right. I've seen the government certificate. Eight hundred miners' inches. That's ample, what?"
"Yes—if you can get it on the land."
"But surely that sort of thing was looked into long ago, when the record was made."
Angus shook his head. "A water record isn't a guarantee of water. It's merely a right to take it if you can get it. Water is one thing you can't take for granted. We have time to run a line to the creek, and see where we come out. As for the spring here, it wouldn't water more than ten acres or so."
There is nothing more deceptive, even to the trained eye, than levels in a broken country. The unaided eye can tell nothing about them. To all appearances, in many places, water runs up hill. Nothing but the level can prove whether it can be brought upon any given area.
Starting from the upper end of the block they began to take sights. The distance to the creek was further than Angus had supposed. They ran into a broken country where the ground was rocky and less adapted to ditching. There were sidehills, which are dangerous because they have an annoying habit of sliding when water-soaked, and gulches which would necessitate fluming. All the time they drew nearer and nearer to the base of the round mountain. Unless the line could run around the lower foot of it the way was barred to water. And finally the line ran into the base of the hill. There was no going around it. It definitely settled the question of water. The land, then, was non-irrigable.
"I wonder if that old blighter, Braden, knew this?" Chetwood speculated.
"He might not," Angus replied, though he had his own ideas on the subject.
"And then again he might," Chetwood grinned. "Caveat emptor, and all that sort of thing. I'm awfully obliged to you, you know."
"That is all right."
"Left to myself I might have bought." He hesitated. "I wish there were some way for me to show my appreciation."
"Any one who knew the country would have told you the same thing."
"I'm not so sure of that. For instance, there is a rancher named Poole—know him?"
"Yes," Angus returned, for Poole to whom Braden had once purposed renting the Mackay ranch, had now some sort of place on the other side of town.
"Well, friend Braden, when I spoke of getting the opinion of some practical rancher, suggested Poole. Took a look at Poole, and thought I'd rather have you. Braden didn't seem to take kindly to my counter-suggestion, which naturally confirmed me in it. It's a sound system to play the game your opponent doesn't like. I'll tell the old blighter you didn't recommend the buy."
"That will be the truth."
Chetwood glanced at him keenly.
"I say," he exclaimed, "I don't wish to seem impertinent, but is there any personal reason why I should let Braden suppose I am doing this on my own?"
Angus hesitated. "I owe him more money than I can pay just now," he said, "but you may tell him what you like."
"Oh, thunder!" Chetwood ejaculated. "I'm afraid I've let you in for something. I'll say we never mentioned water, and quite on my own I'll tell him I must have an engineer's report on that."
But perhaps Chetwood did not tell his story convincingly. Or perhaps Mr. Braden was too old a bird. At any rate, when he next saw Angus he asked him what he had told Chetwood. Angus replied bluntly. Whereupon, Mr. Braden in high indignation accused him of blocking the sale.
"I merely told him what is so," Angus said.
"You brought up the water question yourself."
"Land is no good without water. You know that as well as I do."