Author of “The Old Master,” “The Love Call,” Etc.
Billy was only a cowboy and Holman was something of a
cattle king, but social distinctions didn’t figure with
the U. S. marshal.
Billy waited. Out in the sagebrush a black object was shunting hither
and thither over the desert road, sometimes lost in the dipping swales
and again hidden by the glare of the sun scintillating upon the wind
shield. From the lee of the machine a ribbon of dust trailed out into
the distance. Billy put on his hat and spoke to his pinto, reining him
to a slight knoll to the left whence he could get a good view of the
whole country. Says Billy to the pinto:
“Pinhead, we’re going to have company--you an’ me. That’s old man
Holman. He’s down from his city; an’ he’s sore an’ ornery; an’ he’s got
about as many kicks in his system as a centipede with a toothache--all
because you’ve been drinking his water an’ because I’m a-living. An’
we’ve got to move on, Pin, so he says--you an’ me--just because he’s
Holman an’ you an’ me ain’t nothin’ but nothin’.”
The pinto cocked up one ear at the approaching car. In his own way he
scented the intrusion. Billy lit a cigarette and waited. From the knoll
they looked down upon the expanse of the wide valley, north, south and
east. The north was a carpet of verdure and a network of irrigation
canals--reclaimed desert; the south was a stretch of sagebrush and sand,
and an occasional oasis; while in the east, about three miles away, a
distinct line marked the border of desert and alfalfa--the hither side a
dry parched yellow; the other side a cool living green. In the west,
behind him, lay the mountains. Billy had a homestead at the foot of the
mountains.
Like most homesteads it was ramshackle--a plain unpainted box house and
a shed barn. There is something pathetic about all homesteads and this
one was no exception; had it not been for a certain grim humor and the
fact that Billy was a real cowman it would have been just like any
other.
There was a streak of perversity about Billy Magee. When the idea of
nesting first entered his head he had looked about for a place that
would give excitement as well as a place to squat, until his Uncle
Samuel should think fit to bestow upon him the dignity of a patent and
the appendant distinction of being a law-abiding taxpayer. Just for that
excitement Billy had planted his homestead in the strip of foothill
level that separated the great free mountain range from the irrigated
section of the valley. The green stretches belonged to the Holman Land
and Water Company; and Holman, the president and whole works of the
company had always regarded that strip as his own private property and
had treated it as such, because no one had hitherto had the hardihood to
file on it and make the promise to the government that they intended it
for a home. The government range, in this instance, was a wild dry
country. That it was still public land was due simply to the lack of
accessible underground water. The creeks and springs had been taken up
years before by individuals and had later been bought out by Holman.
With the water in the big man’s hands the rest could go hang! Then along
had come Billy Magee and his homestead. If the trick were successful,
Billy, as well as Holman, would have contiguous access to the great free
pasture. It worried Holman; Billy was inured to the desert and
accustomed to its ways; wherefore it was hardly likely that his motives
were those of an air-castle tenderfoot. Knowing the country as he did
and realizing the value of water the cowboy would hardly have filed on
the land unless he was pretty sure of just what he was doing.
So Holman figured.
Billy waited until the car came to a stop. A heavy, broad-shouldered
individual sat at the wheel, a man with gray hair and a square-cut,
have-my-own-way sort of jaw.
“Magee?” he asked. He looked at the cowboy out of cold gray eyes.
“Yes, sir. That’s what my ma called me.”
“Ahem.” The big man sparred. “You received my letter last winter, I
believe?”
“Sure did,” said Billy. “And I answered it. Nothin’ doin’. She’s my
homestead and I’m going to keep her.”
The other nodded. “Are you sure?” He pulled out a check book. “I haven’t
much time. Here’s one thousand dollars, if you relinquish--or, if you
don’t wish to relinquish, we’ll call it a payment of one thousand
dollars on the quarter section--against the day that you get your
title.”
Billy Magee shook his head.
“Nope. She’s a pretty fair piece of land. Besides”--he waved his hand
toward the range--“take a look at that.”
The other bit his lip.
“Where’s your water? You can’t use my creeks. I’ve served notice to my
foremen to keep you out. So far I have been lenient, but I don’t propose
to give you a bit more now than the law allows. You can’t raise stock
without water. I own the creeks. You can’t drill a well because your
water level is too deep, here, for successful pumping.”
Billy smiled. “She’s a fair homestead at that,” he answered. “I think
I’ll keep her.”
“What’s your game.”
“No game at all,” said Billy. “Just a notion. I want to pay taxes and be
a real citizen.”
“You won’t relinquish?”
“Not to-day--nor to-morrow.”
The big man thought a bit; and frowned; then to relieve his feelings he
pulled a black cigar from his pocket and lighted it. Billy kept company
with a cigarette.
“Let me tell you something, my boy. I’m giving you a fair chance.
There’s a thousand cold, hard dollars in this paper. If you take it and
give me your word I’ll help you get your title--grubstake you--and when
you are done you can sign the land over to me for another thousand.”
“Suppose I don’t take the thousand?”
“That’s your funeral, not mine. A thousand’s a nice chunk of money.”
“Sure is,” said Billy, “only----”
“Only what?”
“That I don’t like that kind of money. Come on, Holman, tell me the
truth. Didn’t you get all those twenty thousand acres down yonder in the
irrigated belt in just this fashion? I take it that you know the law on
dummy homesteading?”
No answer.
“Well, I gave Uncle Sam my oath that I was after this land for Billy
Magee.”
“Then we can’t do business?”
“Not to-day.”
“Huh! Well, you’ve got the law on your side. I can’t throw you off, of
course--unless I want to take a chance on the Federal prison. But”--he
grinned maliciously--“better watch your homestead.”
With that he started up his machine and hit down the road through the
desert fringe to the great green belt that marked the patented holdings
of the Holman Land and Water Company.
Billy watched him go. Then he leaned over to his pinto. “Pinhead,” he
said, “you an’ me is in fer it. I wonder what the game is? Anyway, just
as soon as we hear from Uncle Samuel we’re going to have a vacation.”
An hour later he had ridden out of the desert into the irrigated section
to the post office. A young lady of pleasant eyes passed out a long
envelope with the legend “Department of the Interior” in the upper
left-hand corner. Billy tore it open.
It was a leave of absence, à la red tape, granted to one, William Magee.
Homestead entry--Serial No. 56943J, et cetera.
When he had read it he put it in his pocket.
“Well, Pinhead,” he spoke, “it’s you an’ me off to see the old boys
again. We’re going back to the old outfit, where they raise real cattle.
Then we’ll come back to take care of Holman.”