CHAPTER VII
Farwell took charge of his construction camps, and immediately began toinfuse some of his own energy into his subordinates.
But as a beginning he rode over the works, blue prints in hand, thusgetting to know the contour of the country, and the actual location andrun of the main canal and branch ditches, constructed and projected.With this knowledge safely filed away in his head, he proceeded toverify the calculations of others; for he had once had the bitterexperience of endeavouring to complete work which had been based on theerroneous calculations of another man. He had been blamed for that,because it had been necessary to find a scapegoat for the fruitlessexpenditure of many thousands. So, having had his lesson, he was everafter extremely careful to check all calculations, regardless of thelabour involved.
These things occupied him closely for some weeks. He saw scarcelyanybody but his own men, nor did he wish to see anybody else. Heintended to finish the job, and get out at something better. Thereforehe plugged away day and night, and, so far as he could, forced othersto do the same.
But the current of his routine was changed by so small a thing as awire nail. He was returning from an inspection of his ditches, when hishorse pulled up dead lame. Farwell, dismounting, found the nailimbedded to the head in the animal's hoof; and he could not withdrawit, though he broke his knife blade in repeated attempts. He sworeangrily, not because it meant temporary inconvenience to himself, butbecause he sympathized with his horse; and, looping the reins over hisarm, began to walk, the animal limping after him.
Half an hour of this slow progress brought him in sight of TalapusRanch. It had been pointed out to him before; but it was withconsiderable reluctance that he decided, for his mount's sake, to turninto the trail to the house.
Sheila was on the veranda, and Farwell raised his hat.
"Miss McCrae, I think. You may remember me--Farwell. I'm sorry totrouble you, but my horse has picked up a nail. If I could borrow apair of pliers or shoeing pincers----"
"Of course. Father is at the stable. I'll show you."
Donald McCrae, just in from a day of irrigating, shook hands, and tookthe horse's hoof between his knees with the certainty of a farrier.
"Right bang to the head," he observed, as he tried for a grip. "I'llhave it in a minute. Hold him, now! Steady, boy! There you are!"
With a twist and an outward wrench he held up the nail between the tipsof the pincers. He released the hoof, but the horse held it clear ofthe ground.
"Sore," said McCrae. "A nasty brute of a piece of wire, too. That's amighty lame cayuse. You won't ride him for a week--maybe two."
"He'll have to take me to camp, or I'll have to take him."
"And that might lame him for two months. Leave him here. I'll poulticethe foot if it needs it. You stay and have supper. Afterward we'lldrive you over."
Farwell demurred, surprised. He considered all the ranchers to beleagued against the railway, and in that he was not far wrong. In hismind it followed as a corollary that they were also hostile to him, ashe was hostile to them.
"Thanks! It's very good of you, but, under the circumstances--youunderstand what I mean."
"You needn't feel that way," McCrae returned. "When this country wasjust country, and no more, a white man was always welcome to my fire,my blankets, and my grub, when I had it. It's no different now, atTalapus. You're welcome to what we have--while we have it. There's noquarrel between us that I know of."
"No, of course not," said Farwell, not quite at his ease. If McCraechose to put it on that footing he could not reasonably object. "Well,thanks very much. I'll be glad to accept your offer."
An excellent meal put him in better humour. By nature he was a hardman, who took life seriously, engrossed in his profession. He led anomadic existence, moved continually from one piece of work to another,his temporary habitations ranging from modern hotels to dog tents andshacks. In all the world there was no spot that he could call home; andthere was no one who cared a button whether he came or went. Hisglimpses of other men's homes were rare and fleeting, and he was apt tothank Heaven that he was not thus tied down.
But the atmosphere of the ranch appealed to him. Its people were notsilly folk, babbling of trivial things which he neither understood norcared to understand. Mrs. McCrae, as he mentally appraised her, was asensible woman. In her husband--big, quiet, self-contained--herecognized a man as hard as himself. Young McCrae, silent, too grim ofmouth for his years, was the makings of another hard man. But it was atSheila that he looked the most, and at her if not to her hisconversation was directed.
So much for the simple magic of a white dress. When he had seen herwith Dunne, in a dusty riding costume, he had not been especiallyattracted. He had not thought of her since. Now, she seemed a differentperson. He liked her level, direct glance, her low, clear voice, thequiet certainty of each movement of her brown hands. Farwell, thoughhis acquaintance with the species was slight, recognized the hall mark.Unmistakably the girl was a lady.
Sheila, listening, felt that her estimate of Farwell needed revision.He was a bigger man than she had thought, stronger, and therefore amore formidable opponent. It seemed to her monstrous, incongruous, thathe should be sitting there as a guest and yet be carrying out a projectwhich would ruin them. But since he was a guest he had the rights of aguest.
Afterward she found herself alone with him on the veranda. Her fatherand brother had gone to the stables, and her mother was indoorsplanning the next day's housework.
"You smoke, Mr. Farwell?" she said. "I'll get you some cigars."
"I have some in my pocket, thanks."
"No. Talapus cigars at Talapus. That's the rule."
"If you insist on it." He lit a cigar, finding to his relief that itwas very good indeed. "Well, Miss McCrae, I must say your hospitalitygoes the full limit. I'm rather overwhelmed by it."
"What nonsense! Supper, a cigar--that's not very burdensome surely."
"It's the way things are, of course," he explained. "I'm not blind. Iknow what you were thinking about--what you are thinking now."
"I doubt it, Mr. Farwell."
"Yes, I do. You are wondering how I have the nerve to eat your food andsmoke your tobacco when I'm here on this irrigation job."
It was her thought stripped naked. She made a little gesture, scarcelydeprecatory. Why protest when he had guessed so exactly?
"I'm glad you don't feel called on to lie politely," said Farwell. "I'mpretty outspoken myself. I don't blame you at all. I merely want topoint out that if I weren't on this job some one else would be. You seethat. I'm just earning my living."
She was silent. He went on:
"I'm not apologizing, you understand, and I'm not saying anything aboutthe rights of the ranchers or of my employers, one or the other. Idon't care about either. I'm just concerned with my own business."
"That is to say, the railway's," Sheila commented.
"I'm trying to point out that I'm a hired man, with no personalinterest. But of course I'll do what I'm paid to do--and more. I neversaw the time I didn't give full value for every dollar of my pay."
"I don't question it," said Sheila.
"You think I'm talking too much about myself," he said quickly. "That'sso. I'm sorry. You people have treated me well, no matter what youthought, and I appreciate it. I've enjoyed the evening very much. Iwonder"--he hesitated for a moment--"I wonder if you'd mind my ridingover here once in a while?"
"Of course not--if you care to come," Sheila replied. Intuitively shedivined that she had interested him, and she guessed by his manner thatit was not his custom to be interested in young women. Apart from theranchers' grievance against the corporation he represented, she had noreason for refusal. She rather liked his downrightness. Casey Dunne hadsaid that he was a bit of a bully, but not a bluff. His extremefrankness, while it amused her, seemed genuine.
"Thank you!" he said. "I don't flatter myself that you want meparticularly, and I'm quite satisfied with the bare permission. I'm notent
ertaining or pleasant, and I know it. I've been busy all my life. Notime for--for--well, no time for anything but work. But this little jobisn't going to keep me more than half busy. I've done all the hard workof it now."
"I didn't know it was so nearly finished."
"I mean I've been over the ground and over the figures, and I know allthat is to be done. Now it's merely a question of bossing a gang. Aforeman could do that."
Sheila could find no fault with the last statement. Obviously it was afact. But the tone more than the words was self-assertive, evenarrogant. She was unreasonably annoyed.
"Naturally you consider yourself above foreman's work," she commented,with faint sarcasm.
"I don't consider myself above any work when it's up to me to do it orsee it left undone," he replied. "I've held a riveter and driven spikesand shimmed up ties before now. But a concern that pays a first-classman to do third-class work is robbing itself. This is the last timeI'll do it. That's how I feel about it."
Sheila was not accustomed to hear a man blow his own horn so frankly.The best men of her acquaintance--her father, Casey Dunne, Tom McHale,and others--seldom talked of themselves, never bragged, never mentionedtheir proficiency in anything. She had been brought up to regard aboaster and a bluff as synonymous. To her an egotist was also a bluff.His bad taste repelled her. And yet he did not seem to stress theannouncement.
"A first-class man should not waste his time," she observed, but tosave her life she could not keep her tone free from sarcasm. He took upher meaning with extraordinary quickness.
"You think I might have let somebody else say that? Pshaw! I'm notmock-modest. I _am_ a good man, and I'm paid accordingly. I want youto know it. I don't want you to take me for a poor devil of a linerunner."
"What on earth does it matter what I take you for?" said Sheila. "Idon't care whether you have a hundred or a thousand a month. Whatdifference does it make to me?"
"None--but it makes a whole lot to me," said Farwell. "I'm interestedin my profession. I want to get to the top of it. I'm halfway up, andtime counts. And then to be sent down here on this rotten job! Pah! itmakes me sick."
"I'm glad to hear you admit that it's rotten," said Sheila. "It'soutrageous--a straight steal."
He stared at her a moment, laughed, and shook his head.
"You don't understand me. It's rotten from my standpoint--too trivialto waste time on."
"It's rotten from our standpoint. Can't you get away from your supremeself for a moment? Can't you appreciate what it means to us?"
"I know exactly what it means, but I can't help it. You know--but youcan't help it. What are you going to do, anyway?"
"I don't know," she admitted, thinking of her conversation with CaseyDunne.
"You're sure you don't? We heard rumours--I may as well tell you--thatthe ranchers were prepared to make trouble for us."
"Then you've heard more than I have."
He eyed her a moment in silence. She returned his glance unwaveringly.
"I'm glad to know it," he said at length. "I don't want a row. Now, youpeople here--on this ranch--why don't you sell and get out?"
She thought it brutally put. "In the first place, we don't want to sellout. And in the next place who would buy?"
"That's so," he said. "I guess you wouldn't find many buyers. Still, ifyou got the chance----"
Whatever he was about to say was lost in a clamour of wheels and hoofs.Donald McCrae appeared in a buckboard drawn by a light team which hewas holding with difficulty. He pulled them to a momentary halt.
"Now, if you're ready, Mr. Farwell. Jump in quick. These little devilswon't stand. They haven't had any work for a week. All set? G'lang,boys!"
They started with a rear and a furious rush that flung Farwell backagainst the seat. In two hundred yards McCrae had them steadied,hitting a gait that fairly ate up the miles.
Farwell sat silent, chewing an unlighted cigar, turning a new idea overand over in his mind. This idea was to arrange for the purchase ofTalapus Ranch by the railway's land department. None knew better thanhe that the taking of their water would mean absolute ruin to theMcCraes, as it did to others. For the others he cared nothing. But hetold himself that he owed something to the McCraes. They had treatedhim decently, like a white man. He was under a certain obligation, andhere was a chance to return it many thousandfold. Also it would showthe McCrae girl that he was no common employee, but a man of influence.He thought he had pull enough. Yes, when he came to think about it, itwas a shame that people like the McCraes should lose everything. Nobodybut the railway would buy their ranch, under the circumstances. But therailway could do so, and likely make a profit. That would be fair toeverybody.
Once Farwell came to a conclusion he was prompt to act. He said,without preliminary:
"McCrae, what do you want for that ranch of yours?"
"It's not for sale now," McCrae replied.
"Everything's for sale at some price," Farwell commented. "What's afair figure for it? I don't mean what you'll take--but what's itworth?"
McCrae considered.
"There's a thousand acres, and all good. There's no better land in theworld. Then there's the buildings and fencing and stock and implements.Hard to say, nowadays. Why, raw land in little patches is selling atfancy figures. I should say as it stands--stocked and all--it's worth ahundred and fifty thousand of any man's money."
"If I can find a buyer at that figure will you take it?"
"No I'm not selling."
"Now, look here," said Farwell, "you say your place is worth onehundred and fifty thousand. That's with plenty of water for irrigation.Say it is. But what's it worth without water?"
"Without water," said McCrae slowly, "the land itself is worth aboutone dollar an acre. Twenty-five thousand would be an outside price fora crazy man to pay for Talapus."
"Exactly," said Farwell. "McCrae, you'd better let me try to find you apurchaser. For, if you hang on, just as sure as God made little redapples you'll be praying to Him to send you a crazy man."
McCrae was silent for a long minute, his eyes fixed on his horses'ears. "This is the first time," he said, "that it's been put up to mestraight. I knew, of course--we all knew--but nobody had the nerve tocome here and tell us so."
"Well, I have the nerve," said Farwell. "But I'm not saying it the wayyou think I am. I'm not talking as an official; I'm talking as afriend--as I'd like a man to talk to me if I were in your fix. I'mtrying to get you to stand from under. Here's the situation, as plainlyas I can put it: If you can't get water you will be forced to sell, andthe best you can get is grazing-land prices. You know that. On theother hand, if you will sell now I think I can get you the price younamed. Understand, I'm not doing this for a commission. I don't wantone, and I wouldn't take one. I think the railway would buy on myrecommendation if I put it strongly enough; and I'd do that for youpeople because--oh, well, just because I would. Now, there it is,McCrae, and it's up to you."
McCrae eased his team. His big shoulders seemed to droop, as if a heavyweight had been laid upon them. He fought his temptation in thedarkness.
"No," he said at last, "I won't sell. But I'm obliged to you all thesame. If the railway would buy us all out----"
"No!" snapped Farwell. "So that's why you won't sell. You think yourfriends will hold out, too. You've got a sort of a pool. It won't doyou any good. The rest of them haven't the sand. I'll bet there isn'tanother man who would turn down such an offer as I've made to you. Itwill be each man for himself pretty soon."
"You're wrong," said McCrae. "We'll stay with each other. Casey Dunnehad an offer from York. He didn't take it."
"Dunne is a fool!" rasped Farwell. Never guarded in speech, hisinstinctive hostility flared into hot words. "He won't get the chanceagain. He's one man we _won't_ buy."
"I'm another," McCrae retorted swiftly. "Look here, Mr. Farwell, I wasin this country when its only crop was buffalo hides and bad Indians.Land!--you couldn't give it away. I can show you a town with hotels andbank
s and paved streets and electric lights--a fine little town.Twenty-odd years ago I was offered the section that town now stands on,for a team and a two weeks' grubstake for a man and his wife. Theywanted to get out, and they couldn't. I gave 'em the grub, and told 'emit was worth the price of it to me not to own the land. Yes, sir--and Imeant it. I was that shortsighted. So were others. We thought thecountry would never fill up, just as we thought the buffalo would neverbe killed out, and we kept on drifting. When I woke up, the cheap landswere about gone. And then, ten years late, I made my grab for a pieceof what was left. I hiked for this country that I knew ahead ofeverybody, and I picked out the best bunch of stuff there was in it,and I sat down to wait for the rush to catch up to me. Now it's caughtme and the rest of us who came in early. And now you people tell meI've got to move off my reservation, and go away somewhere and beginagain. I won't do it--I tell you I won't! And, what's more, don't youcrowd me too hard--me and the rest of the boys--or there'll be hella-popping right here. Now, you mind what I'm telling you."
He spoke deliberately, evenly, without raising his voice. His manner,even more than his words, expressed fixed determination. Farwell liftedhis eyebrows, and puckered his lips in a silent whistle. His diplomacywas turning out badly, and he repressed an inclination to retort.
"Well, I'm sorry," he said. "I hoped we could fix this up. Think itover, anyway."
"I've done my thinking."
"But, man, you're on the wrong side of the fence, and you know it. Therailway is too strong for you. What's the sense of bucking it?"
"Not much, maybe. I guess you mean well, and I take it friendly, butthis ain't a question of sense."
"Of what, then?"
"Of a man's right to keep what he's worked for, and to live on the landhe owns." McCrae replied. "That's the way I look at it."
It was the old question once more--older than the country, older thanthe _Mayflower_, older than the Great Charter wrested from John theKing----the eternal battle between the common man and class orprivilege. Here, in the new country, in place of the divine right ofkings and the hereditary power of nobles, was substituted the might ofmoney, the power of the corporate body, itself a creation of law,overriding the power which created it.
"Well, it's your funeral," said Farwell. "I can't help my job, justremember that. And of course I've got to earn my pay."
"Sure," said McCrae; "sure, I understand."
They were at the camp. Farwell jumped out inviting McCrae to put histeam up and come to his quarters. McCrae refused. It was late; he mustbe getting back.
"Just as you say," said Farwell. "I'm coming over to your ranch now andthen, if you don't mind."
"Come along," said McCrae. "Latchstring's always out. You, Jeff; you,Dinny! G'lang, boys!"
The buckboard leaped to the sudden plunge of the little road team.Farwell stood for a moment listening to the diminishing drum roll ofhoofs, whir of spokes, and clank of axles in their boxes.
"The blamed fool!" he thought. "Well, I gave him his chance. But it'sgoing to be hard on his folks." He shook his head. "Yes, it will bepretty hard on his wife and the girl--what do they call her? Sheila.Nice name that--odd! Sheila!" He repeated the name aloud.
"Hello, did you speak to me?" said the voice of his assistant, Keeler,in the darkness.
"No!" snapped Farwell, with unnecessary curtness; "I didn't."