THE EVIL EYE OF THE SAWTOOTH
Oppression is a growth that flourishes best in the soil of opportunity.
It seldom springs into full power at once. The Sawtooth Cattle Company
had begun much as its neighbours had begun: with a tract of land,
cattle, and the ambition for prospering. Senator Warfield had then
been plain Bill Warfield, manager of the outfit, who rode with his men
and saw how his herds increased,--saw too how they might increase
faster under certain conditions. At the outset he was not perhaps,
more unscrupulous than some of his neighbours. True, if a homesteader
left his claim for a longer time than the law allowed him, Bill
Warfield would choose one of his own men to file a contest on that
claim. The man's wages would be paid. Witnesses were never lacking to
swear to the improvements he had made, and after the patent had been
granted the homesteader (for the contestant always won in that country)
the Sawtooth would pay him for the land. Frequently a Sawtooth man
would file upon land before any other man had claimed it. Sometimes a
Sawtooth man would purchase a relinquishment from some poor devil of a
claim-holder who seemed always to have bad luck, and so became
discouraged and ready to sell. An intelligent man like Bill Warfield
could acquire much land in this manner, give him time enough.
In much the same manner his herds increased. He bought out small
ranchers who were crowded to the selling point in one way or another.
They would find themselves fenced off from water, the Sawtooth having
acquired the water rights to creek or spring. Or they would be hemmed
in with fenced fields and would find it next to impossible to make use
of the law which gave them the right to "condemn" a road through. They
would not be openly assailed,--Bill Warfield was an intelligent man. A
dozen brands were recorded in the name of the Sawtooth Cattle Company,
and if a small rancher found his calf crop shorter than it should be,
he might think as he pleased, but he would have no tangible proof that
his calves wore a Sawtooth brand.
Inevitably it became necessary now and then to stop a mouth that was
ready to speak unwelcome truths. But if a Sawtooth man were known to
have committed violence, the Sawtooth itself was the first to put the
sheriff on his trail. If the man successfully dodged the sheriff and
made his way to parts unknown, the Sawtooth could shrug its shoulders
and wash its hands of him.
Then whispers were heard that the Sawtooth had on its pay roll men who
were paid to kill and to leave no trace. So many heedless ones crossed
the Sawtooth's path to riches! Fred Thurman had been one; a
"bull-headed cuss" who had the temerity to fight back when the Sawtooth
calmly laid claim to the first water rights to Granite Creek, having
bought it, they said, with the placer claim of an old miner who had
prospected along the headwaters of Granite at the base of Bear Top.
By that time the Sawtooth had grown to a power no poor man could hope
to defeat. Bill Warfield was Senator Warfield, and Senator Warfield
was a power in the political world that immediately surrounded him.
Since his neighbouring ranchmen had not been able to prevent his steady
climbing to the position he now held, they had small hope of pulling
him down. Brit was right. They did well to hang on and continue
living in that country.
At open killing, one that would attract the attention of the outside
world might be avenged. The man who committed the crime might be
punished,--if public opinion were sufficiently massed against him. In
that case Senator Warfield would cry loudest for justice. But it would
take a stronger man than the country held to raise the question of Fred
Thurman's death and take even the first steps toward proving it a
murder.
"It ain't that they can do anything, Mr Warfield," the man from Whisper
said guardedly, urging his horse close to the machine that stood in the
trail from Echo. It was broad day--a sun-scorched day to boot--and
Senator Warfield perspired behind the wheel of his car. "It's the talk
they may get started."
"What have they said? The girl was at the ranch for several days. She
didn't talk there, or Hawkins would have told me."
"She was sick. I saw her the other day at the Quirt, and she more'n
half recognised me. Hell! How'd _I_ know she was in there among them
rocks? Everybody that was apt to be riding through was accounted for,
and I knew there wasn't any one coming horseback or with a rig. My
hearing's pretty good."
Warfield moved the spark lever up and down on the wheel while he
thought. "Well," he said carefully at last, "if you're falling down in
your work, what are you whining about it to me for? What do you want?"
Al moistened his lips with his tongue. "I want to know how far I can
go. It's been hands off the Quirt, up to now. And the Quirt's
beginning to think it can get away with most anything. They've throwed
a fence across the pass through from Sugar Spring to Whisper. That
sends us away around by Three Creek. You can't trail stock across
Granite Ridge, nor them lava ledges. If it's going to be hands off, I
want to know it. There's other places I'd rather live in, if the
Quirt's going to raise talk about Fred Thurman."
Senator Warfield pulled at his collar and tie as if they choked him.
"The Quirt has made no trouble," he said. "Of course, if they begin
throwing fences across our stock trails and peddling gossip, that is
another story. I expect you to protect our interests, of course. And
I have never made a practice of dictating to you. In this case"--he
sent a sharp glance at Al--"it seems to me your interests are involved
more than ours. As to Fred Thurman, I don't know anything about it. I
was not here when he died, and I have never seen this girl of Brit's
who seems to worry you. She doesn't interest me, one way or the other."
"She seems to interest Bob a whole lot," Al said maliciously. "He rode
over to see her yesterday. She wasn't home, though."
Senator Warfield seemed unmoved by this bit of news, wherefore Al
returned to the main issue.
"Do I get a free hand, or don't I?" he insisted. "They can't be let
peddle talk--not if I stay around here."
Senator Warfield considered the matter.
"The girl's got the only line on me," Al went on. "The inquest was as
clean as I ever saw. Everything all straight--and then, here she comes
up----"
"If you know how to stop a woman's mouth, Al, you can make a million a
month telling other men." Senator Warfield smiled at him. Then he
leaned across the front seat and added impressively, "Bear one thing in
mind, Al. The Sawtooth cannot permit itself to become involved in any
scandal, nor in any killing cases. We're just at the most crucial
point with our reclamation project, over here on the flat. The
legislature is willing to make an appropriation for the building of the
canal, and in two or three months at the latest we should begin selling
agricultural tracts to the public. The State will also throw open the
land it had withdrawn from settlement, pending the floating of this
canal project. More than ever the integrity of the Sawtooth Cattle
Company must be preserved, since it has come out openly as a backer of
the irrigation company. Nothing--_nothing_ must be permitted to stand
in the way."
He removed his thin driving cap and wiped his perspiring forehead.
"I'm sorry this all happened--as it has turned out," he said, with real
regret in his tone. "But since it did happen, I must rely upon you
to--to--er----"
"I guess I understand," Al grinned sardonically. "I just wanted you to
know how things is building up. The Quirt's kinda overreached itself.
I didn't want you comin' back on me for trying to keep their feet outa
the trough. I want you to know things is pretty damn ticklish right
now, and it's going to take careful steppin'."
"Well, don't let your foot slip, Al," Senator Warfield warned him.
"The Sawtooth would hate to lose you; you're a good man."
"Oh, I get yuh," Al retorted. "My foot ain't going to slip---- If it
did, the Sawtooth would be the first to pile onto my back!" The last
sentence was not meant for the senator's ears. Al had backed his
horse, and Senator Warfield was stepping on the starter. But it would
not have mattered greatly if he had heard, for this was a point quite
thoroughly understood by them both.
The Warfield car went on, lurching over the inequalities of the narrow
road. Al shook his horse into a shambling trot, picking his way
carelessly through the scattered sage.
His horse travelled easily, now and then lifting a foot high to avoid
rock or exposed root, or swerving sharply around obstacles too high to
step over. Al very seldom travelled along the beaten trails, though
there was nothing to deter him now save an inherent tendency toward
secretiveness of his motives, destinations and whereabouts. If the
country was open, you would see Al Woodruff riding at some distance
from the trail--or you would not see him at all, if there were gullies
in which he could conceal himself. He was always "line-riding," or
hunting stray stock--horses, usually--or striking across to some
line-camp of the Sawtooth on business which he was perfectly willing to
state.
But you will long ago have guessed that he was the evil eye of the
Sawtooth Company. He took no orders save such general ones as Senator
Warfield had just given him. He gave none. Whatever he did he did
alone, and he took no man into his confidence. It is more than
probable that Senator Warfield would never have known to a certainty
that Al was responsible for Thurman's death, if Al had not been worried
over the Quirt's possible knowledge of the crime and anxious to know
just how far his power might go.
Ostensibly he was in charge of the camp at Whisper, a place far enough
off the beaten trails to free him from chance visitors. The Sawtooth
kept many such camps occupied by men whose duty it was to look after
the Sawtooth cattle that grazed near; to see that stock did not "bog
down" in the tricky sand of the adjacent water holes and die before
help came, and to fend off any encroachments of the smaller cattle
owners--though these were growing fewer year by year, thanks to the
weeding-out policy of the Sawtooth and the cunning activities of such
as Al Woodruff.
It may sound strange to say that the Sawtooth country had not had a
real "killing" for years, though accidental deaths had been rather
frequent. One man, for instance, had fallen over a ledge and broken
his neck, presumably while drunk. Another had bought a few sticks of
dynamite to open up a spring on his ranch, and at the inquest which
followed the jury had returned a verdict of "death caused by being
blown up by the accidental discharge of dynamite." A sheepman was
struck by lightning, according to the coroner, and his widow had been
glad to sell ranch and sheep very cheaply to the Sawtooth and return to
her relatives in Montana. The Sawtooth had shipped the sheep within a
month and turned the ranch into another line-camp.
You will see that Senator Warfield had every reason to be sincere when
he called Al Woodruff a good man; good for the Sawtooth interests, that
means. You will also see that Brit Hunter had reasons for believing
that the business of ranching in the Sawtooth country might be classed
as extra hazardous, and for saying that it took nerve just to hang on.
That is why Al rode oblivious to his surroundings, meditating no doubt
upon the best means of preserving the integrity of the Sawtooth and at
the same time soothing effectively the ticklishness of the situation of
which he had complained. It was his business to find the best means.
It was for just such work that the Sawtooth paid him--secretly, to be
sure--better wages than the foreman, Hawkins, received. Al was
conscientious and did his best to earn his wages; not because he
particularly loved killing and spying as a sport, but because the
Sawtooth had bought his loyalty for a price, and so long as he felt
that he was getting a square deal from them, he would turn his hand
against any man that stood in their way. He was a Sawtooth man, and he
fought the enemies of the Sawtooth as matter-of-factly as a soldier
will fight for his country. To his unimaginative mind there was
sufficient justification in that attitude. As for the ease with which
he planned to kill and cover his killing under the semblance of
accident, he would have said, if you could make him speak of it, that
he was not squeamish. They'd all have to die some day, anyway.