The Stone Creek fire indeed proved not to amount to much, whereby sheer
chance upheld Henry Plant. The following morning the fire fighters
returned; leaving, however, two of their number to "guard the line"
until the danger should be over. Welton explained to Bob that only the
fact that Stone Creek bottom was at a low elevation, filled with brush
and tarweed, and grown thick with young trees rendered the forest even
inflammable at this time of year.
"Anywhere else in this country at this time of year it wouldn't do any
harm," he told Bob, "and Plant knew it couldn't get out of the basin. He
didn't give a cuss how much it did there. But we've got some young stuff
that would easy carry a top fire. Later in the season you may see some
tall rustling on the fire lines."
But before noon of that day a new complication arose. Up the road came a
short, hairy man on a mule. His beard grew to his high cheek bones, his
eyebrows bristled and jutted out over his black eyes, and a thick shock
of hair pushed beneath the rim of his hat to meet the eyebrows. The hat
was an old black slouch, misshapen, stained and dusty. His faded shirt
opened to display a hairy throat and chest. As for the rest he was
short-limbed, thick and powerful.
This nondescript individual rode up to the verandah on which sat Welton
and Bob, awaiting the lunch bell. He bowed gravely, and dismounted.
"Dis ees Meestair Welton?" he inquired with a courtesy at strange
variance with his uncouth appearance.
Welton nodded.
"I am Peter Lejeune," said the newcomer, announcing one of those hybrid
names so common among the transplanted French and Basques of California.
"I have de ship."
"Oh, yes," said Welton rising and going forward to offer his hand. "Come
up and sit down, Mr. Leejune."
The hairy man "tied his mule to the ground" by dropping the end of the
reins, and mounted the two steps to the verandah.
"This is my assistant, Mr. Orde," said Welton. "How are the sheep coming
on? Mr. Leejune," he told Bob, "rents the grazing in our timber."
"Et is not coming," stated Lejeune with a studied calm. "Plant he
riffuse permit to cross."
"Permit to what?" asked Welton.
"To cross hees fores', gov'ment fores'. I can' get in here widout cross
gov'ment land. I got to get permit from Plant. Plant he riffuse."
Welton rose, staring at his visitor.
"Do you mean to tell me," he cried at last, "that a man hasn't got a
right to get into his own land? That they can keep a man out of his own
_land_?"
"Da's right," nodded the Frenchman.
"But you've been in here for ten years or so to my knowledge."
Abruptly the sheepman's calm fell from him. He became wildly excited.
His black eyes snapped, his hair bristled, he arose from his chair and
gesticulated.
"Every year I geev heem three ship! Three ship!" he repeated, thrusting
three stubby fingers at Welton's face. "Three little ship! I stay all
summer! He never say permit. Thees year he kip me out."
"Give any reason?" asked Welton.
"He say my ship feed over the line in gov'ment land."
"Did they?"
"Mebbe so, little bit. Mebbe not. Nobody show me line. Nobody pay no
'tention. I feed thees range ten year."
"Did you give him three sheep this year?"
"Sure."
Welton sighed.
"I can't go down and tend to this," said he. "My foremen are here to be
consulted, and the crews will begin to come in to-morrow. You'll have to
go and see what's eating this tender Plant, Bob. Saddle up and ride down
with Mr. Leejune."
Bob took his first lesson in Western riding behind Lejeune and his
stolid mule. He had ridden casually in the East, as had most young men
of his way of life, but only enough to make a fair showing on a gentle
and easy horse. His present mount was gentle and easy enough, but Bob
was called upon to admire feats of which a Harlem goat might have been
proud. Lejeune soon turned off the wagon road to make his way directly
down the side of the mountain. Bob possessed his full share of personal
courage, but in this unaccustomed skirting of precipices, hopping down
ledges, and sliding down inclines too steep to afford a foothold he
found himself leaning inward, sitting very light in the saddle, or
holding his breath until a passage perilous was safely passed. In the
next few years he had occasion to drop down the mountainside a great
many times. After the first few trips he became so thoroughly accustomed
that he often wondered how he had ever thought this scary riding. Now,
however, he was so busily occupied that he was caught by surprise when
Lejeune's mule turned off through a patch of breast-high manzañita and
he found himself traversing the gentler slope at the foot of the
mountain. Ten minutes later they entered Sycamore Flats.
Then Bob had leisure to notice an astonishing change of temperature. At
the mill the air had been almost cold--entirely so out of the direct
rays of the sun. Here it was as hot as though from a furnace. Passing
the store, Bob saw that the tall thermometer there stood at 96 degrees.
The day was unseasonable, but later, in the August heats, Bob had often,
to his sorrow, to test the difference between six thousand and two
thousand feet of elevation. From a clear, crisp late-spring climate he
would descend in two hours to a temperature of 105 degrees.
Henry Plant was discovered sprawled out in an armchair beneath a
spreading tree in the front yard. His coat was off and his vest
unbuttoned to display a vast and billowing expanse of soiled white
shirt. In his hand was a palm-leaf fan, at his elbow swung an _olla_,
newspapers littered the ground or lay across his fat knees. When Bob and
Lejeune entered, he merely nodded surlily, and went on with his reading.
"Can I speak to you a moment on business?" asked Bob.
By way of answer the fat man dropped his paper, and mopped his brow.
"We've rented our sheep grazing to Mr. Lejeune, here, as I understand
we've been doing for some years. He tells me you have refused him
permission to cross the Forest Reserve with his flocks."
"That's right," grunted Plant.
"What for?"
"I believe, young man, granting permits is discretionary with the
Supervisor," stated that individual.
"I suppose so," agreed Bob. "But Mr. Lejeune has always had permission
before. What reason do you assign for refusing it?"
"Wilful trespass," wheezed Plant. "That's what, young man. His sheep
grazed over our line. He's lucky that I don't have him up before the
United States courts for damages as well."
Lejeune started to speak, but Bob motioned him to silence.
"I'm sure we could arrange for past damages, and guarantee against any
future trespass," said he.
"Well, I'm sure you can't," stated Plant positively. "Good day."
But Bob was not willing to give up thus easily. He gave his best efforts
either to arguing Plant into a better frame of mind, or to discovering
some tangible reason for his sudden change of front in regard to the
sheep.
"It's no use," he told Lejeune, later, as they walked down the street
together. "He's undoubtedly the right to refuse permits for cause; and
technically he has cause if your sheep got over the line."
"But what shall I do!" cried Lejeune. "My ship mus' have feed!"
"You pasture them or feed them somewhere for a week or so, and I'll let
you know," said Bob. "We'll get you on the land or see you through
somewhere else."
He mounted his horse stiffly and rode back up the street. Plant still
sat in his armchair like a bloated spider. On catching sight of Bob,
however, he heaved himself to his feet and waddled to the gate.
"Here!" he called. Bob drew rein. "It has been reported to me that your
firm has constructed a flume across 36, and a wagon road across 14, 22,
28, and 32. Those are government sections. I suppose, of course, your
firm has permits from Washington to build said improvements?"
"Naturally," said Bob, who, however, knew nothing whatever of those
details.
"Well, I'll send a man up to examine them to-morrow," said Plant, and
turned his back.
V
Bob took supper at Auntie Belle's, and rode up the mountain after dark.
He did not attempt short cuts, but allowed his horse to follow the plain
grade of the road. After a time the moon crept over the zenith, and at
once the forest took on a fairylike strangeness, as though at the touch
of night new worlds had taken the place of the vanished old. Somewhere
near midnight, his body shivering with the mountain cold, his legs stiff
and chafed from the long, unaccustomed riding, but his mind filled with
the wonder and beauty of the mountain night, Bob drew rein beside the
corrals. After turning in his horse, he walked through the bright
moonlight to Welton's door, on which he hammered.
"Hey!" called the lumberman from within.
"It's I, Bob."
Welton scratched a match.
"Why in blazes didn't you come up in the morning?" he inquired.
"I've found out another and perhaps important hole we're in."
"Can we do anything to help ourselves out before morning?" demanded
Welton. "No? Well, sleep tight! I'll see you at six."
Next morning Welton rolled out, as good-humoured and deliberate as ever.
"My boy," said he. "When you get to be as old as I am, you'll never stir
up trouble at night unless you can fix it then. What is it?"
Bob detailed his conversation with Plant.
"Do you mean to tell me that that old, fat _skunk_ had the nerve to
tell you he was going to send a ranger to look at our permit?" he
demanded.
"Yes. That's what he said."
"The miserable hound! Why I went to see him a year ago about crossing
this strip with our road--we had to haul a lot of stuff in. He told me
to go ahead and haul, and that he'd fix it up when the time came. Since
then I've tackled him two or three times about it, but he's always told
me to go ahead; that it was all right. So we went ahead. It's always
been a matter of form, this crossing permit business. It's _meant_ to be
a matter of form!"
After breakfast Welton ordered his buckboard and, in company with Bob,
drove down the mountain again. Plant was discovered directing the
activities of several men, who were loading a light wagon with
provisions and living utensils.
"Moving up to our summer camp," one of them told Bob. "Getting too hot
down here."
Plant received them, his fat face expressionless, and led them into the
stuffy little office.
"Look here, Plant," said Welton, without a trace of irritation on his
weatherbeaten, round countenance. "What's all this about seeing a permit
to cross those government sections? You know very well I haven't any
permit."
"I have been informed by my men that you have constructed or caused to
be constructed a water flume through section 36, and a road through
sections 14, 22, 28 and 32. If this has been done without due
authorization you are liable for trespass. Fine of not less than $200 or
imprisonment for not less than twelve months--or both." He delivered
this in a voice absolutely devoid of expression.
"But you told me to go ahead, and that you'd attend to the details, and
it would be all right," said Welton.
"You must have misunderstood me," replied Plant blandly. "It is against
my sworn duty to permit such occupation of public land without due
conformity to law. It is within my discretion whether to report the
trespass for legal action. I am willing to believe that you have acted
in this matter without malicious intent. But the trespass must cease."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Welton.
"You must not use that road as a highway, nor the flume, and you must
remove the flume within a reasonable time. Or else you may still get a
permit."
"How long would that take?" asked Welton. "Could it be done by wire?"
Plant lifted a glazed and fishy eye to survey him.
"You would be required to submit in writing specifications of the length
and location of said road and flume. This must be accompanied by a
topographical map and details of construction. I shall then send out
field men to investigate, after which, endorsed with my approval, it
goes for final decision to the Secretary of the Interior."
"Good Lord, man!" cried Welton, aghast. "That would take all summer! And
besides, I made out all that tomfoolery last summer. I supposed you must
have unwound all that red tape long ago!"
Plant for the first time looked his interlocutor square in the eye.
"I find among my records no such application," he said deliberately.
Welton stared at him a moment, then laughed.
"All right, Mr. Plant, I'll see what's to be done," said he, and went
out.
In silence the two walked down the street until out of earshot. Then Bob
broke out.
"I'd like to punch his fat carcass!" he cried. "The old liar!"
Welton laughed.
"It all goes to show that a man's never too old to learn. He's got us
plain enough just because this old man was too busy to wake up to the
fact that these government grafters are so strong out here. Back our
way when you needed a logging road, you just built it, and paid for the
unavoidable damage, and that's all there was to it."
"You take it cool," spluttered Bob.
"No use taking it any other way," replied Welton. "But the situation is
serious. We've got our plant in shape, and our supplies in, and our men
engaged. It would be bad enough to shut down with all that expense. But
the main trouble is, we're under contract to deliver our mill run to
Marshall & Harding. We can't forfeit that contract and stay in
business."
"What are you going to do about it?" asked Bob.
"Get on the wires to your father in Washington," replied Welton. "Lucky,
your friend Baker's power project is only four miles away; we can use
his 'phone."
But at the edge of town they met Lejeune.
"I got de ship in pasture," he told Bob. "But hees good for not more dan
one wik."
"Look here, Leejune," said Welton. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to look
up another range for this summer. Of course, we'll pay any loss or
damage in the matter. It looks impossible to do anything with Plant."
The Frenchman threw up both hands and broke into voluble explanations.
From them the listeners gathered more knowledge in regard to the sheep
business than they could have learned by observation in a year. Briefly,
it was necessary that the sheep have high-country feed, at once; the
sheepmen apportioned the mountains among themselves, so that each had
his understood range; it would now be impossible to find anywhere
another range; only sometimes could one trade localities with another,
but that must be arranged earlier in the season before the flocks are in
the hills--in short, affairs were at a critical point, where Lejeune
must have feed, and no other feed was to be had except that for which he
had in all confidence contracted. Welton listened thoughtfully, his eyes
between his horses.
"Can you run those sheep in, at night, or somehow?"
The Frenchman's eyes sparkled.
"I run ship two year in Yosemite Park," he bragged. "No soldier fin'
me."
"That's no great shakes," said Welton drily, "from what I've seen of
Park soldiers. If you can sneak these sheep across without getting
caught, you do it."
"I snik ship across all right," said Lejeune. "But I can' stop hees
track. The ranger he know I cross all right."
"What's the penalty?" asked Welton.
"Mos'ly 'bout one hundred dollars," replied Lejeune promptly. "Mebbe
five hundred."
Welton sighed. "Is that the limit?" he asked. "Not more than five
hundred?"
"No. Dat all."
"Well, it'll take a good half of the rent to get you in, if they soak us
the limit; but you're up against it, and we'll stand back of you. If we
agreed to give you that grazing, by God, _you'll get it_, as long as
that land is ours."
He nodded and drove on, while Lejeune, the true sheepman's delight in
dodging the officers burning strong within his breast, turned his mule's
head to the lower country.