CHAPTER II
In a secluded corner of a certain club billiard room two middle-agedgentlemen padded around and around a table, and poked at balls. Bothappeared bored by the amusement. Their skill was little, and their luckwas rather less, so that a ball rarely found a pocket. Between strokesthey carried on a conversation having to do with such light andfrivolous topics as bond issues, guarantees thereof, sinking funds,haulage rates, and legal decisions and pending legislation affectingtransportation. Or it might be more accurate to say that oneendeavoured to engage the other in conversation on these esotericmatters, at which the other repeatedly shied, evincing a preference forthose of more general human interest.
Not that he was uninformed on these topics. Quite the reverse. He was arotund, florid little man, with twinkling, humorous eyes, which couldbore like augers on occasion, and a mouth as firm and close as a steeltrap. His name was William Bates Rapp, and his specialty wascorporation law. He was counsel for the Western Airline Railway, andjust then he was pretending to play billiards with its president,Cromwell York.
York, who also was pretending to play billiards with Rapp, was a doggedgentleman who was accustomed to take his pound of flesh whenever hecould not obtain, on some pretext, two pounds. His subordinates saidthat he worked twenty-five hours a day, which gives, if you considerit, an advantage of some fifteen days per annum. He was in the grip ofhis business, body and soul. It fascinated him, dominated him more andmore as the years went on, as his own fortune and his interestsincreased. He was continually reaching out for more territory, and inso doing he came in hostile contact with other railway men, alsogunning for the same game. Occasionally, therefore, they gunned foreach other. When York was hit he took his medicine; when he hit theother fellow he chose as vital a spot as he could. Even as he playedbilliards his mind was elsewhere, which accounted in part for his poorsuccess at the game.
"Speaking about Prairie Southern," said he, "we have about decided totake it over."
Rapp sighed. "I'm not a perpetual-motion legal machine, York. Won'tthat keep till to-morrow?"
"We pay you a big enough retainer," said York, with the frankness ofyears of intimacy. "What do you suppose we do it for?"
"Principally, I imagine, to keep you out of jail," Rapp retorted, withequal frankness. "I've done it so far, but----" He shook his headforebodingly. "Well, if you _will_ talk, come and sit down. I'm tiredof this. Now, then, about Prairie Southern: have they come to the endof their rope, or did you pull it in a little for them?"
"I didn't need to," said York. "They have tied themselves up in hardknots. We don't particularly want the road; but, as matters stand, wecan buy it cheaply. Later we might want it, and it would undoubtedlycost more. Besides, I don't want Hess to get hold of it as a feeder tohis lines."
"Jim Hess is a sort of bugbear to you," said Rapp. "You'll keepprodding him till he horns you one of these days."
"Two can play at that," York replied grimly.
"There's mighty little play about Jim Hess when he goes on thewarpath," Rapp commented. "Well, let's get the worst over. There'sshort of three hundred miles of this Prairie Southern, as I understandit. It runs somewhere near the foothills. The country doesn't growanything yet. The only reason for its building was a coal-mine boomthat petered out. Its bonding privilege was one of the most disgracefulbits of jobbery ever lobbied through a corrupt little legislature. Itwas a political scandal from its birth. It is burdened with a multitudeof equities. It never has paid, and likely it never will pay. You knowthese things as well as I do. I'm hanged if I see why you want it."
"If we don't get it some one else will," said York. "I wish you'd lookinto their affairs, and see what sort of a legal bill of health theyhave. I am putting our accountants on their finances."
"All right," said Rapp. "I'll give 'em a bill of health like apest-house record. Their bonded indebtedness is shocking, and they haveall sorts of litigation pending against them."
"I'll tell you one thing," York said. "They have a large land grant."
"Which they got because the land was worthless."
"Supposed to be worthless," York amended.
Rapp cocked his head like a terrier that suddenly discerns a large andpromising rat hole. "Come through," he said.
"This land," York explained, "is in the dry belt. It was supposed to beworth nothing when the P.S. charter was granted, and so the governmentof that day was generous with it. As a matter of fact, the land is goodwhen irrigated; and it can be irrigated--or most of it can."
"How do you know it's any good?"
"There are some first-class ranches down there."
"If that is so, why don't P.S. put the lands on the market? They needthe money."
"No advertising or selling machinery, and not enough money to put in anirrigation system, and no credit. They can't afford to wait."
Rapp considered. "Plenty of water for these lands?"
"That's a question," York admitted. "The main water down that way is ariver called the Coldstream. The ranchers have their water records,which of course take precedence of any we might file. There may beenough--I don't know. That will have to be ascertained. But if thisstuff can be irrigated it can be sold. Our land department will lookafter that."
"Almost any sort of an irrigated gold brick can be sold nowadays," saidRapp cynically. "I admit that you have some pretty fair con men in yourland department."
"We never put anything on the market that wasn't a perfectly legitimateproposition," said York, with dignity.
"Depends on what you call 'legitimate,'" said Rapp. "I've read some ofyour land advertising. If you sold shares by means of a prospectus nomore truthful, you'd do time for it. You know blame well you unloadyour stuff on people who depend on selected photographs and pretty penpictures of annual yields per acre. Of course, any man who buys landwithout seeing it deserves exactly the sort of land he gets. I'm notcriticising at all--merely pointing out that I know the rudiments ofthe game."
"Help us play it, then," said York. "Dig into Prairie Southern, and seewhat we get for our money."
William Bates Rapp did so. By various complicated and technicaldocuments he grafted the moribund Prairie Southern upon the vigoroustrunk of Western Airline, after which he washed his hands of theoperation by a carefully worded letter accompanying a huge bill ofcosts, and dismissed the matter from his mind; for it was only onetransaction among a score of more important ones.
Later, the experts of the Airline descended on the carcass of poor oldPrairie Southern, to see what had best be done with the meat upon itsbones, and the result was fairly satisfactory. The traffic wasinconsiderable, but showed signs of improvement. The land hunger wasupon the people, frightened by the cry that cheap lands were almost atan end. Many were stampeded into buying worthless acres which they didnot want, in the fear that if they delayed there would be nothing leftto buy. Fake real-estate schemes--colonies, ten-acre orchard tracts,hen farms, orange groves, prune plantations--flourished over the widthand length of a continent, and promoters reaped a harvest. Land with alegitimate basis of value doubled and trebled in price between seasons.
It was a period of inflation, of claim without proof, of discountingthe future. Men raw from the city bought barren acres on whichpractical farmers had starved, in the expectation of making an easy,healthful living. And in this madness the lands of the old PrairieSouthern grant, at one time supposed to be worthless, justified theforesight of Cromwell York by reaching a value in excess of even hisexpectations. For, given water, they were very good lands indeed, andWestern Airline was prepared to sell them with a water guarantee.
This took time; and it was two years after the acquisition of PrairieSouthern that York, a trifle grayer and a shade more dictatorial thanbefore, was one morning handed a card by his secretary. He frowned atit, for the name was strange.
"Who's this Casey Dunne, and what does he want?"
Dunne, it appeared, wished to see him in connection with the Coldstreamirrigation project, then wel
l under way. He owned property in thatvicinity; he also represented certain other ranchers.
"Lawyer?" snapped York. The secretary thought not. "Show him in."
When Dunne entered York did not immediately look up from his papers.This was for general effect. When he did look he became conscious thateven as he was measuring so was he being measured.
Casey Dunne carried an atmosphere of outdoors. From the deep tan of hisneck, against which the white of his collar lay in startling contrast,to the slender, sinewy brown hands, he bore token of wind and sun andactivity in the open. His clothes were new, excellent in fit andmaterial; but, though he did not wear them awkwardly, one gathered theimpression that he was accustomed to easier, more informal garments.His manner was entirely self-confident, and betrayed neither awe norembarrassment. Which gave York an unfavourable impression to startwith.
"Take a chair, Mr. Dunne," he said. "I can give you five minutes orten. Not more. What can I do for you?"
"I may have to ask you to stretch that time limit a little," saidDunne, smiling as if York were an old friend. "Let me start at thebeginning, and then I won't have to go back. I live down on theColdstream, on the line of the old Prairie Southern, which you acquireda couple of years ago. With it you got their land grant. Your landdepartment, after looking the Coldstream blocks over, decided toirrigate and sell these lands; and they undertook a main ditch and asystem of ditches, and they are selling the lands at the present time."
"I know all this," said York impatiently. "Carrol runs our landdepartment, and he deals with these matters. He's the man you want tosee."
"He referred me to you," said Dunne. "I know this is ancient history,but I'm cleaning up as I go along. You will get your water for theselands from the Coldstream. I and others own property there, and we getour water from the river below your intake. Are you aware that yourditch system is capable of carrying, and that the lands you are sellingwith a guarantee of an adequate water supply will require, _almost theentire normal flow of the Coldstream_?"
"I have understood from our land department"--York chose his wordscarefully--"that the river contains ample water to irrigate our lands."
"Which, I need scarcely point out, is not an answer to my question,"Dunne commented quietly.
"But which," York countered, "is all that I am concerned with, Mr.Dunne."
The railway man and the younger, bronzed out-of-doors man eyed eachother in silence while one might count ten. In the last words therailway's policy had been laid down, an issue defined, a challengegiven.
Casey Dunne's eyes narrowed a little, and his mouth tightened. He spokevery quietly, but it was the exercised quiet of self-restraint:
"I had hoped that you would not take that ground, Mr. York. Let me showyou how this concerns myself and others. Take my own case: I have aranch down there; I have my water record. I have gone on working theranch, making improvements from year to year, and every dollar I couldscrape up I put into more land. I wasn't speculating. I can gamble withany man when I have to; but this wasn't gambling. There was the land,and there was the water. The increase of value was merely a question oftime. Others bought as I bought. We put our money and our years of workinto lands along the Coldstream. Our whole stake is there. I want youto appreciate that--to get our viewpoint--because with us this isn't aquestion of greater or less profit, but a question of existence itself.If you take away our water our lands are worthless, and we go broke. Ican't put it any plainer than that."
"And without water," said York, "the railway's lands are worthless--orso I am told. The unfortunate feature, according to what you say, seemsto be that there is not water enough for you and for us. Therefore eachmust stand upon his legal rights."
"You raise the point," said Dunne. "It is a question of legal and moralright against what I think--and I don't want to be offensive--but whatI think is an attempt to read into a clause of an old charter a meaningwhich it was never intended to carry."
York's eyebrows drew down. "The clause in the Prairie Southern'scharter to which I presume you refer is perfectly clear. It states thatthe railway company may take from the Coldstream or any other runningstream 'sufficient water for its own purposes.' Those are the exactwords of the charter. It saves existing rights, but there were nonethen existing. Therefore the railway's right is first, and all waterrecords are subject to it. The charter further empowers the company toimprove, buy, sell, and deal in land. These, then, are purposes of thecompany, according to its charter, and for these purposes it mayconstruct and maintain all necessary works. Could anything be clearer?We acquired every right that Prairie Southern possessed. The rightswere in existence when you bought your land. Therefore I do not thinkyou should complain when we exercise them, even though they may affectyou to some extent."
"I follow your argument," Dunne observed, "but the words 'sufficientwater for its own purposes' were never intended to mean that therailway should take the whole river."
"What do you think they meant?"
"What any sensible man would think. You may take sufficient water torun your trains, to fill your tanks, to use in any way in connectionwith your business of transportation, and nobody will object to that;but when you undertake to divert a whole river to irrigate lands inorder to sell them, you go too far. That is the business of areal-estate company, and not of a railway company."
Cromwell York, who had obtained the unanimous opinions of three eminentcorporation counsel upon that very point, smiled tolerantly.
"You are not a lawyer, Mr. Dunne?"
"No."
"Nor am I. But I have had this clause passed upon, and I tell you thatwe are quite within our rights. The charter covers the case completely,according to the best legal opinion."
"But nobody thought of irrigation when this charter was granted,"objected Dunne. "The land was supposed to be worthless. That was whyPrairie Southern got such a large land grant. You know that."
"That has nothing to do with the case. Let us stick to the point. What,so far, have you to complain of?"
"This," said Dunne shortly. "You have a charter which you say entitlesyou to all the water in the river. You are constructing ditchessufficient to carry it all; you are constructing a dam to divert itall; and you are selling land to an acreage which, if cultivated, willrequire it all. You admit your intentions. When that dam is built andthose ditches are filled our ranches must go dry. It spells our ruin.We are living on sufferance. And yet you ask us what we have tocomplain of!"
"I need scarcely assure you," said York, "that unless and until werequire the water it will not be taken."
"Not nearly good enough," Dunne returned. "We can't work and improveour ranches with that hanging over us. Such an assurance is of nopractical value."
"It is all I can give you."
Casey Dunne nodded as one who sees things turning out as he expected."Then naturally we shall be forced to fight you."
"As you like," said York indifferently. "You will lose, that's all. Ican't do any more for you. It is my duty to my shareholders to increasethe value of those lands if I can do so legally."
"I wish I could get your viewpoint," said Casey Dunne, and for thefirst time his voice lost a shade of its calm and began to vibrate withanger. "I'd like to know just how much it differs from a claim jumper'sor a burglar's. You know as well as I do that you have no earthly rightto take that water. You know you are taking advantage of the carelesswording of an old charter. You know that it means the utter ruin of menwho went into a God-forsaken land without a dollar, and took a brown,parched wilderness by the throat, and fought it to a standstill--menwho backed their faith in the country with years of toil and privation,who made the trails and dug the ditches, and proved the land. And youhave the colossal nerve to set a little additional dividend on wateredstock against the homes of those men--old, some of them, now--and therights of their wives and children to the fruits of their work!"
The railway man surveyed him with quiet amusement. To him thisresembled the vicarious indignatio
n of a very young country lawyer at aclient's wrongs.
"Are you," he asked, with quiet sarcasm, "one of those who made thetrails and dug the ditches and endured the privations? If so, they seemto have agreed with you."
Casey Dunne's blue eyes narrowed, and his voice fell to a level. Heleaned forward across the desk with an ugly set to his jaw.
"If you want to know just how strong I'm in on this I'll tell you," hesnapped. "I'm thirty-four years old. I've made my own living since Iwas fifteen. I've roughed it because I had to, and I've gone low enoughat times. I've starved and blistered and frozen in places you neverheard of; and out of it all I got together a little stake. I put thatinto Coldstream land. Do you think I'm going to let you take it withouta fight? I'm _not_."
York, who never let go himself, drummed on his desk thoughtfully. Thiswas a sentiment he understood and appreciated. A fighter, he recognizeda kindred spirit. Also if this man were influential, as appearedlikely, among the Coldstream ranchers, it might be well to make termswith him.
"You haven't a chance," he said. "I'll be quite frank with you. We havethe best legal advice, and our position is quite unassailable. Even ifit were not, we could appeal you into bankruptcy. Still, though I don'tadmit that you have the least claim on us, we might possibly buy inyour holdings at a fair present price."
"That's freeze-out," Dunne returned bluntly. "You force us to sell, andafterward you include our lands in your ditch system, and clean up athousand per cent. It won't do. We proved that country, and we wantthat profit ourselves."
"I'm making the offer to you alone," said York. "I don't care about theothers. We don't want their land."
"Then why are you trying to make a deal with me?" rasped Casey Dunne."You think I'll go home and tell my neighbours that they have no showat all to buck the railway, and the best thing we all can do is to sellout for what we can get--and then I keep my mouth shut on the fact thatI'm getting more than the rest of them."
"Nothing of the sort," snapped York, who did not like to hear histhought done into plain English. "My offer was made in good faith, butI withdraw it. Keep your land."
"And the devil do me good with it, I suppose!" said Casey Dunne,picking up his hat and rising. "Very well, Mr. York. I know now whereyou stand. And here's where we stand: Not one of us will sell an acreor a foot. We are going to keep our land, and we are going to keep ourwater--somehow."
"The best advice I can give you is to see a good lawyer," said York.
"I'll take the advice," Dunne replied. "But whether we take thelawyer's advice or not is another matter entirely."
"What do you mean by that?" York demanded.
"I mean," said Dunne, who had quite recovered his usual manner, whichcontained a spice of mockery that York found irritating, "that we'renot very strong on law down where I come from. Some of us have gotalong pretty well with what law we carried around with us. Goodmorning, Mr. York."