CHAPTER IV
Casey Dunne pulled a fretful buckskin to a halt as he topped a rise andlooked down on Talapus Ranch. It lay before him, the thousand-odd acresof it, lush and green beneath the sloping, afternoon sun, an oasis in asetting of brown, baked earth and short, dry grasses which seldom feltthe magic of the rains. The ranch was owned by Donald McCrae, a pioneerof the district, and it was the show place of the country. It wasExhibit A to incomers, a witness to the results of irrigation. Thebroad, fat acres were almost level. There was no waste land, nocoulees, no barren hills to discount its value. Every foot of it couldbe irrigated, and most of it was actually irrigated and cultivated.
Dunne's eye followed the lines of the ditches, marked by margins ofgreen willows. They cut through the fields of wheat, of oats, ofalfalfa, timothy, and red clover. They were the main arteries. Fromthem branched veins supplying the fields with the water that gave themlife--the water without which the land was waste and barren; but withwhich it bore marvellously with the stored fertility of fallowcenturies. Away at one end of the ranch, sheltered to north and west bylow hills, was the ranch house itself, surrounded by young orchards,the stables, the corrals, the granaries, the cattle sheds, tool andimplement houses. At that distance, in the clear, dry air, they lookedlike toys, miniatures, sharply defined in angle and shadow. So, too,the stock grazing in the fields were of lilliputian dimensions.
From where he sat in the saddle Dunne could see the Coldstream,scarcely more than a large creek, dignified in that land of dryness bythe name of river, whose source was in the great green glaciers andeverlasting snows of the hills. Its banks were green with willow andcottonwood. It was a treasure stream of untold value. With it the landprospered; without it the land and the men who peopled the land mustfail.
"And that ranch, and others like it," Dunne muttered through his teeth,"must go dry and back to brown prairie unless the owners sell out tothat old holdup, York, at his own price. Well, Mr. York----You yellowdevil!"
The last words did not refer to Cromwell York. For, without provocationor preliminaries, the buckskin's head had dived between his legs, hisback arched like an indignant cat's, and with a vicious squeal he beganto pitch.
Dunne drew his quirt and let him have it. The brown, plaited leatherplayed like lightning on quarters, flanks, cached head, and flattenedears.
"No work, and a bellyful of oats three times a day!" he gritted."Forgotten who's your boss, hey? I'll show you, you hammer-headed,saffron-hided----"
"Stay with him, Casey!"
Dunne turned his head, and shut his teeth upon forthcoming referencesto his steed's pedigree. A girl, brown, lean, aquiline of feature, satastride a big slashing bay, and watched the contest with amusement.Dunne's face, red from exertion, deepened in colour; for some of hisremarks, though exceedingly apposite, had not been intended forfeminine ears. He answered, between pitches, in the vernacular:
"You bet I will, Sheila! Go to it, old son! Bump to glory if you like!"
But as suddenly as he had begun the buckskin desisted. He heaved asigh, stood still, and turned a mildly inquiring, backward eye on hisrider. It was as if he had said: "What! Still there? You surprise me!"
Sheila McCrae laughed. "He's passing it off as a joke, Casey."
"He nearly got me, the old sinner," said Dunne. "Now he'll be good tillnext time. You miserable, imitation bad horse, some day I'll manhandleyou."
"Shiner knows you won't," the girl commented.
"He knows you're fond of him. You'll quirt him when he pitches, andthen give him an extra feed."
"Well, maybe," Casey admitted shamelessly. "I like the old hyena. I'vefrazzled out leather on his hide that cost more than he did, but Inever went after him right. He certainly can drift when he has to.What's the news, Sheila? All well at the ranch?"
She nodded, running a keen eye over his face. "All well. But you're thenews bureau, Casey."
"Am I?" he said. "Well, then, I haven't a piece of good news in mysaddlebags--not one."
"I knew it," she said. "Well, it can't be helped, Casey. There will besome way out. Let's go on to the ranch. Supper will be ready. Most ofthe men won't come till afterward. I won't be at your council of war,but I want you to let me know just what you decide on."
"Of course," he replied. "You've got a better head than most men,Sheila. I don't know what we will do--haven't a notion. It looks asthough we were up against a tough proposition."
His dejection was apparent, and, womanlike, she tried to cheer him.Some way would be found. The action of the railway was so high-handedand unjust that it could not succeed. But though she spoke cheerfully,her keen eyes were troubled, and her face was clouded as they rode upto the ranch.
They found Donald McCrae at the stables. He was a dark-faced giant of aman, and for all his years carried himself as straight as a young pine.All his life had been spent on the frontier. He had seen it movewestward, and had moved with it from the Great Lakes across the GreatPlains. He had seen it vanish, as the wild pigeon and the buffalo hadgone--mysteriously, in a season, almost. Wheat fields, etched in greenand gold, lay where he had made his lonely camps; orchards nestled bylittle lakes and in mountain valleys where he had trapped the beaver;strings of brass-bound, vestibuled coaches whirled where he had riddenhis pony with the pack train shuffling behind. And here, on theColdstream, he had made his last stand, taken up land, and turned, whenpast his prime, to the quiet life of a rancher.
"Light down, light down, Casey!" he called. "Put your cayuse in thestable. Give me Beaver Boy, Sheila. Go up to the house and fix us somewhiskey with a chip of ice in it, like a good girl. Stir up the Chinkas you go through, and make him rustle supper in a hurry. We'll beright in." He took his daughter's horse, and in the stable turned toDunne.
"Well?" he demanded tersely.
"Nothing," Casey replied. "They stand their hand."
"I was afraid of it," said McCrae. "And they outhold us, Casey."
"Yes. Too much money."
"Will they buy us?"
"No. York offered to buy me. I was to be a decoy for the rest, I think.I refused. Now he will freeze us out."
"Will he?" said McCrae heavily. "Will he? Maybe so. And maybe----" Hedid not complete the sentence, but stood at the door, scowling at thefair fields. "Twenty years back, Casey--yes, ten, even--if a man jumpedmy staking I'd have known what to do. We own this water. What's thedifference? Can't the law help us? Do we have to help ourselves?"
"It may come to that," Casey replied. "Yes, it's pretty nearly come tothat, McCrae. I saw a lawyer--one of the best in the business. He saysthe odds are against us. They will appeal and appeal--carry it up tothe highest court. Meanwhile our land will be dry likely. We're out ona limb. If we hang on they shoot, and if we drop off they skin us."
"I guess that's so," said McCrae. "It's a bad fix any way you look atit. There's the ranch. That ain't so much, far's I'm concerned. I'vebeen broke before, and I can rustle for myself for years yet. Butthere's my wife and Sheila and Alec. It's theirs. I worked for them.It's all I've got to leave them. You see, Casey, I can't stand to loseit."
"I know," said Casey sympathetically. "It's a hard position. Look here,Donald, if you wish it I'll vote for breaking our pool, and each mandoing the best he can for himself."
"No, I didn't mean that," said McCrae. "The railway wouldn't give us afair price, and nobody else would buy with this hanging over. I'llstick. But you, now, it's some different with you. You're young, youain't married. It's your stake, of course, but then you've got timeleft you to get another. They offered to buy you out. I don't know butyou'd best take their offer. That'll give you something to start on.None of us will think the less of you for it."
"The agreement was that we were to fight this to a finish. If we soldout the railway was to buy all or none. If you can stay with that Ican."
"But then, you see, Casey----"
"I see, Donald. You know me better than that."
McCrae slapped him on the shoulder with a huge hand, and his
voice tookon the Gaelic accent of his childhood learned from his father, thatMcCrae who had in his time ruled a thousand miles of wilderness for thegreat fur company.
"I do know ye, boy, and it is proud I will be of it. There's Sheila atthe door, callin' us. A toss of liquor and a bite--it will put theheart in us again. We must cheer up for the women, lad."
But in spite of this resolution supper was not a merry meal. Talk wasspasmodic, interrupted by long silences. Mrs. McCrae--slight, gentle,motherly, with wavy silver hair--was plainly worried. Her husbandbrooded unconsciously over his plate. Sheila and Casey, conversing ontopics which neither was thinking about, blundered ridiculously. Andthe son of the house, Alec McCrae, a wiry, hawk-faced young man oftwenty-two, strongly resembling his sister, was almost silent.
Soon after supper the ranchers who had banded together for mutualprotection began to arrive by saddle and buckboard. Men of all ages,they comprised a dozen descents and nationalities, the Celtic andAnglo-Saxon strains predominating.
There was Oscar Swanson, heavy, slow-moving, blond as Harold Haarfagar,a veritable Scandinavian colossus; Wyndham, clean-bred, clean-built, anEnglish gentleman to his fingers' tips; old Ike James, whose tonguecarried the idiom and soft-slurring drawl of his native South; EugeneBrule, three parts Quebec French and one part Cree; Carter, O'Gara,Bullen, Westwick, and half a dozen others.
One and all they were wind-and-sun tanned, steady of eye, mostly quietand brief of speech. Life was a serious business with them just then.Their ranches were their all. They had given hostages to competence. Upto a year ago they had believed themselves lucky, independent, on theway to modest fortune. Then came alarming rumours; next, constructionof works confirming the rumours. Now they were come to hear the worstor best from the lips of their envoy, Casey Dunne.
They listened as he gave details of his interviews with York and Wade,lips grimly wrapped around cigars and pipe stems, troubled eyesstraining through the blue smoke at the speaker.
"And you couldn't get an injunction?" said Wyndham.
"No. The judge said that the mere fact of building a dam did not showan intention to interfere with anybody's rights."
"Didn't--eh?" snapped Carter, at high tension. "Then I'd like to knowwhat would show it!"
"So would I," said Dunne. "Anyway, what the judge said went. The longand short of it is that we can't go to law till they actually take ourwater. Wade advises us to sell out if we can get a fair price. Andthat's all I have to report, gentlemen."
"A fair price!" exclaimed Carter. "That's all right to talk about--butwho'll give us one? The railway won't buy--it's cheaper to freeze usout. Nobody else will. And, if it comes to that, what is a fair price?Land is boosting everywhere. If we sold now we'd just be robbingourselves."
"S'pose they starts to rustle our water and we go to law," said oldJames, "does this here lawsuit tangle up things so's't we get plenty ofwater till the case is tried?"
"I'm afraid not," Casey replied. "That's the worst of it. Wade seemedto think that once they got the water they could keep it until the casewas settled by the last court of appeal. And that would put us out ofbusiness."
"It's sure a mean jack pot," said James. "It looks like they have it onus every way. The prospects for our emergin' winners ain't cheerin'none, but, gents, speakin' for myself alone, I wouldn't sell at noprice. I'm aimin' to live where I be till you-alls beds me down forkeeps. I reckon I'll stay with the game while I got a chaw and aca'tridge left. I may be froze out, but dog-gone my ol' hide if I'll bebluffed out. This here ain't none different from claim jumpin'. I ownmy water, and I'm goin' to keep on havin' it. And the man that shets itoff will be mighty apt to see how they irrigate them green fields 'wayover yander 'cross the River Jordan."
His words were like fire in dry straw.
"That's right, Uncle Ike!" cried Carter.
"By George I'm with you myself!" cried Wyndham.
"_Moi aussi!_" exclaimed Brule. "By damn, yes!"
"Yes, let 'em try it!" cried young Alec McCrae, his eyes gleaming likethose of a fierce young hawk that sights its first quarry. "Let 'em tryit!" he repeated ominously, nodding to himself.
But on the excitement of the others Donald McCrae's words fell like anicy douche: "Men, this is plain foolishness. Alec, let me hear no moreof it from you. James, you should know better. We can't enforce claimlaw here. The old days are gone."
"I ain't gone yet, nor you ain't," old James replied, his eyes gleamingbalefully through slitted lids. "I give it out now that I don't setquiet and see my ditches go dry. Long's the law won't help us--and thelaw never gave no action in the West nohow--I'm goin' to help myself. Iain't raisin' the long yell for partners, neither!"
"You can't bring back the old days," McCrae repeated. "I stand to loseas much as any man here, but shooting one or two men who are doing whatthey are paid to do won't help us. You all know that."
"That's so," Casey admitted. "That's the last thing we can afford todo."
"Well, maybe you boys are right," said the old man reluctantly. "MaybeI ain't up to date. But what you goin' to do? You got to do somethin'."
"Yes," said Wyndham. "They are getting ahead with their work. It won'tbe long till that dam is finished. Then they'll take the water from us,that's certain."
But here Big Oscar received an inspiration. He had been listeningcarefully, casting mildly inquiring blue eyes on the speakers. He was agood listener, was Oscar, and he seldom spoke. His mental engine, sofar as could be judged by its verbal expression, turned over stiffly.Apparently it had never been run enough to be smoothed down--at leastin English. But his contribution to the debate at this juncture wasnoteworthy. Said he:
"Say, Ay tenk Ay blow dat dam, easy!"
They stared at him for a moment, while the suggestion took root. It wasobvious that if the dam were destroyed the water would remain theirsuntil it was rebuilt. True, its destruction would be a lawless act,amounting to a declaration of war; but war on them had already beendeclared. They would be merely striking the first blow, and here wasthe logical spot to strike.
"Good boy, Oscar," said Carter. "I believe that's the answer."
"What do you think, McCrae?" asked Wyndham.
"I'm against violence in any form," said McCrae slowly. "But they areforcing it on us. They want to steal our ranches. It amounts to that.This is the only thing we can do, and when we do it we'll do it right."
A round of applause greeted his concluding words. Old Ike Jameswhispered to his neighbour:
"This here Highland Scotch stock is sure a funny proposition. What theystart with a pra'ar they're mighty apt to end with a gun. Ol' Donald'sa sure-'nough wolf when he gets goin'."
"And you, Dunne?" asked Wyndham.
"I'm in. I guess it's a case. Oscar, you have a great head. When shallwe start the fireworks, and who's to start 'em?"
Oscar, flattered by the compliment and the unusual attention, picked uphis hat. "Ay ban good powder man. Ay tenk Ay start him now when Ay gatsome powder," said he. He smiled at them serenely. "Mebbe if t'ree,four you faller come by me you svear Ay ban home all night?" hesuggested ingenuously.
But there was an objection to the immediate execution of the plan. Theywere just then getting all the water they needed. The farther aheadthey could set the date of the destruction of the dam while retainingthe water, the farther off would be the date when it could be rebuilt,as they had no doubt it would be. Thus they might tide through the hot,dry summer. Whereas, if it were blown up now it might be repaired andtheir water taken when they needed it most.
Just then it seemed wise to pursue a policy of masterly inactivity. Butthe mere fact of having settled on a course of action cleared the air,cheered them. In place of a despondent lethargy there was a nervoustension, as before a battle. They laughed and joked amid the bobbingstable lanterns as they harnessed and saddled; and they rode away fromTalapus Ranch one and all in better spirits than they had come.