Billy read the sign; it was a bit different from the one that the girl
had pinned on the door. He swung the gate, cowboy fashion without
alighting from his pinto; in another minute he was upon invaded
territory. It did not bother Billy Magee. He rode straight on for a mile
and a half--then he stopped.
He was in the center of a great alfalfa field; to the left of him was a
small building and an immense stack of alfalfa; from one side of the
building a steady stream of water was flowing into a ditch that bore it
out to the fields. Some men--Mexicans--were at the stack. Several teams
with full loads were waiting their turn. One wagon was being unloaded.
Just as he rode up a last fork of hay was mowed up toward the stack.
Billy estimated the pile as close to two hundred tons. A man, evidently
a boss, was coming toward him. Billy reached for his gun.
“Hey!” said the man.
“Hey, yourself,” said Billy Magee.
The man stopped before the gun. He was a tall fellow, heavy, and though
he was of a dark complexion he was not Spanish--rather was he Irish. And
he was no coward.
“What’s the idea?” indicating the gun. “Will it go off? What’cha want?”
The cowboy rode up.
“Just this, Sweeny. I want you to git. Git! Savvy the English? See that
ditch over yonder? Take your bunch of Mexicans on the other side. And
keep them there. It’s healthy.”
“Humph!” sneered the other. “Supposin’ I refuse?”
But the man said no more; he looked into the eyes of Billy Magee and
backed away.
“What’s the idea, Billy; have you gone mad?”
“Kinda,” said the cowboy. “And I’m goin’ t’ get madder. This is dog days
and I’ve been bitten--by a dog. Here! I’ll help you get that bunch
moving.”
The gun barked. A fork of hay was rising up from a fresh load. The
bullet cut the spring rope. The mass of alfalfa dropped back to the
wagon. A splatter of Spanish followed. Billy Magee rode up to the stack.
“Come. Vamoose! Take ’em out of here, Sweeny!”
For a minute there was silence--then consternation. The men stumbled out
of the stack and began unhooking the butt chains. They all knew Billy
Magee. He was the best-natured man in the country. Everybody knew him.
Billy had gone crazy. Only one man stopped to remonstrate.
“Wait,” he said. “You, Billy. You go the loco.” He pointed to his head.
“Mebbe better for to have drink. Mebbe so”--he looked up at the sun and
wiped his head--“_caliente_!”
“You bet I’m hot,” snapped the cowboy; “but it’s not the sun. You get
down and help with those butt chains. Here you----”
The gun barked again. The frightened Mexican rolled headfirst off the
load to the shelter behind the horses. The whole outfit marched ahead;
behind came the foreman, and back of him Billy. The alfalfa was
waist-high.
“Fine lot of grass,” commented the cowboy.
The other had recovered his courage; knowing Billy he had not crossed
him. There is wisdom in discretion--also safety.
“What’s the idea? What’cha pullin’ off? Y’ can’t get by with this kinda
stuff--not nowadays. Wait till Holman hears; he’ll come howling.”
“We ain’t arguin’,” said Billy. “I told you I am mad. Ain’t nothin’ in
hell any madder. You go get Holman. When he comes I’m going to eat
him--raw.”
The foreman scratched his head.
“All right, Billy. I’ll send the old boss after you, but I ain’t
guarantee who’s goin’ to do the eating. I’ll keep my hands off. Look out
for the Mexicans.”
Billy Magee did not answer. When the Mexicans had disappeared across the
alfalfa he turned back toward the pump house. For some moments he stood
by the flow of water--fully a thousand gallons a minute. He did some
thinking--varied and yet concentered--deserts, water, homesteaders,
girls, dreams, trees, homes--love. A vague feeling had entered the
breast of Billy Magee. He had a notion that life might be worth the
living. He stepped into the shed; the hum of the motor runed in his ears
and called up a tune that was lying at the bottom of his heart. From his
pocket he drew the notebook, tore out a leaf and wrote upon it. Then he
tacked it on the wall. When he was through he looked up: the pinto was
beside the door.
“Well, Pinhead,” said Billy Magee, “she’s done. If you an’ me can hold
out an’ keep our skins from being perforated they’s goin’ to be some
truth in poetry.”
The Mexicans and Sweeny did not come back. When a man of Magee’s social
standing flourishes a gun lingering ceases to be a healthy pastime. He
could see their dim forms, mere dots, disappearing toward the ranch
house. The sun was going down, so he led his pony to the stack, picked
out a cove between two piles of alfalfa and stabled him securely by
pitching a mass of hay about the opening. Then he climbed the stack and
waited for the moon.
For Billy was not quite as mad as he seemed; he had a plan and a
deliberate way of going at it. He knew that Holman would not tolerate
his presence on the ranch but he knew also that before the big man came
he would have to deal with the Mexicans. Holman had already offered him
one thousand dollars; therefore it was almost a certainty that he would
pay an equal sum to the Mexicans if they would relieve him of the
trouble of dealing with Billy Magee. The cowboy had driven the owner’s
hands off with a gun; and the law of the land protects the rights of
property--only, Billy knew too much about the law! Instead of fearing
the Mexicans he hoped that they would come. It would be a pleasant
preliminary to his meeting with Holman. In fact it would do away with
the necessity of a fight with the big man and help him immensely in his
revenge.
Nevertheless he had a chance to sleep. It was not until the wee hours
that his estimation of Mexican valor came to its proof. Just before
daylight he was awakened by the pinto’s nickering and the simultaneous
report of a gun. In an instant he had ducked into the hay and was
worming toward the edge.
“Ah, ha!” said Billy Magee. “Now we have the fun!”
With his revolver in his hand he crawled to a point of lookout but at
first he could see nothing. There was no more shooting. Below him
stretched the sea of alfalfa; as the sun tipped the mountains to the
eastward he scanned every bit of it and at last he found what he was
after--a head lifted, a hand. Billy did not wish to kill--that hand was
a good mark.
The next instant the new daylight was cut by Spanish expletives. The
Mexican leaped to his feet with a yell and without parley fled out of
range. Billy watched for the others.
He did not have to wait long. A Mexican does not fight at a
disadvantage. He watched with considerable glee the wriggling,
frightened forms working their way out of gunshot. When they were out of
danger they stood up on their feet and disappeared toward the ranch
house.
Billy straightened and took a good look. If his simple plan was working
it ought to be coming to fruition. Sure enough he made out a dot
approaching in the distance, a fast-moving dot that could be nothing
other than a machine. The car came straight to the gate that Billy had
entered the previous afternoon and drew up at the pump house. Billy
climbed down from the stack. A man stepped from the automobile.
“Mr. Magee.”
“That’s me,” said Billy.
“My name is Arthur Ross. Mr. Mobray met me in town last night; he said
to tell you that Jones gave him your letter. He just happened to meet
him. He insisted that I come here without delay. He will come just as
soon as he follows your instructions.”
“Did he tell you what I wanted you for?”
“No.”
The young man was dressed in corduroys and a slouch hat; he had a family
resemblance to the girl Billy had found on his homestead.
“Come into the pump house.”
The stranger read the words that Billy had tacked on the wall. His jaw
dropped suddenly.
“Where did you get this. Did Mr. Holman----”
“Exactly.”
“I do not understand.”
“You will when that machine gets here.” Billy pointed to a car crossing
the alfalfa. “They’s some people who carry this here stuff they call
chivalry in their pocketbook. Holman’s a sweet, kind gentleman. Just now
he’s coming to throw me off the ranch.”
The other did not answer. He was watching the machine coming from the
ranch house. It drew up at the shed. Holman was at the wheel and there
was evidently something on his mind; at the sight of Arthur Ross he
flushed slightly.
“Ah, Mr. Ross.” Apparently he did not know what to say. “It is a fine
morning. Is there--er--something that you want?”
“Decidedly,” answered the young man, “but perhaps you had better talk to
my friend here. He’s my agent.”
Holman did not conceal his anger now. He turned to Billy Magee.
“What do you want here! Do you know the rules of the Holman Land and
Water Company? Git out!”
Billy was modest to a tantalizing degree. He took off his hat and
smiled, half in triumph and half in amusement.
“Before I go, Mr. Holman, I would like to thank you for the killers that
you sent after me a while ago. Also I would like to stay until that
automobile gets here.” There was another machine coming through the
gate. “I want to hear what the United States marshal has to say about
it.”
“The United States marshal!”
“Exactly. If you will get out of the machine I have something to show
you.”
The big man did not like it but he did not demur. The three men entered
the pump house.
“Can you read, Mr. Holman?”
“Humph!”
“Yes, that’s it. That piece of paper is the homestead entry of Jennie
Ross--section twenty, southeast quarter, range twenty-six, Mount Diablo
meridian, which happens to be this identical and specified piece of
alfalfa. This is government land, Mr. Holman, even if you did happen to
have it covered up. It was open for entry and belonged to any one who
would properly file on it and live up to the conditions specified by the
government. Arthur Ross discovered it on the books at the land office
and Jennie Ross filed on it. Not only that; but they secured a surveyor
to direct them to the land. By a mere accident they happened to stop at
your ranch house. And because you did not wish to lose the land, even if
you had to steal it, you bribed the surveyor to locate them on my
hopeless piece of desolation out there in the desert. You knew that if
you could keep them from establishing residence for six months you could
have a dummy file a contest and cheat them out of their rights. You have
even gone as far as violence. I don’t know what your lawyer will call
it; but I do know that our good old Uncle Sam looks upon every
homesteader as his own private ward and goes after those who interfere
with them almighty hard. How about it, Mr. Marshal?”
The marshal was looking through the door. Pop Mobray was by his side.
Billy grinned.
“Nice little round-up we’re havin’. Eh, Holman?”
A few minutes later the president of the Holman Land and Water Company
was on his way to deposit bail, unroll red tape and fatten his lawyers
in the slow, unceasing roll of government justice.
When they were gone Billy turned to Arthur Ross.
“Go up and tell Jennie to come down and start her dream on a real piece
of land. Tell her I want her to pardon me for switching papers on her
while she was looking at her pies. And thank her for that piece of pie.”
And when Arthur Ross was gone he took a stub pencil from his pocket and
wrote upon the side of the pump house:
Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing,
Where there’s more of giving, and less of buying,
Where a man makes friends without half trying,
That’s where the West begins.
“Gosh,” he said, “a girl who sticks up a piece like that sure needs a
square deal. It’s real poetry. I’d like to meet the man who wrote it.”