Bob McGraw threw back his red head and chuckled. “A bright idea,
sweetheart,” he repeated, “and if it works out and I am enabled to file
first, the problem of getting back to the desert will be a minor one.
The real problem is the acquisition of four or five thousand dollars
to drive my tunnel, and after that I must scrape together thirty-nine
thousand dollars to advance to my poor Pagans, in order that they may
pay for the land on which I shall have induced them to file. In the
meantime I do not anticipate any diminution in the appetites of myself
and Friar Tuck.
“Well, after I have my tunnel driven and the head-gates in and my Pagans
have the land, I have only started. The land must be cleared of sage and
greasewood, which in turn must be piled and burned. Then I must build
several miles of concrete aqueduct, with laterals to carry the water for
irrigation, and I must install a hydro-electric power-plant, purchase
telegraph poles, string power lines, build roads, houses, barns and
fences. I think I shall even have to build one hundred and fifty miles
of railroad into Donnaville and equip it with rolling stock.”
He thrust both arms out, as if delving into the treasures of his future.
“Whew-w-w!” he sighed. “I'll need oodles of money. I'm going to be as
busy as a woodpecker in the acorn season.”
Donna drew his arm within hers and they walked slowly--up and down the
brick-lined patio.
“It means a fight to the finish, Bobby dear--and you're terribly
handicapped. If your suspicions are well founded you will find yourself
opposed by men with the power of wealth and political influence behind
them.”
His whimsical exalted mood passed. In the presence of the girl he loved
and whom he hoped to marry he suddenly realized that he stood face
to face with a gigantic sacrifice. To carry through to a conclusion,
successful or unsuccessful, this great work to which he had set his hand
meant that until the finish came he must renounce his hope of marriage
with Donna. True, he might win--but it would take years to demonstrate
that victory was even in sight; if he lost, he felt that he could
never have the heart to ask her to share with him his poverty and his
failures.
An intuitive understanding of his thoughts came to Donna at that moment;
she realized that under that gay, careless exterior there beat the
great warm heart of a man and a master, on whom, for all his youth and
strength and optimism, a great load of care was already resting--the
destiny of his people. She realized that he needed help; she thought
of her insignificant savings (some six hundred dollars) reposing in
the strong-box of the eating-house safe, and the first impulse of her
generous heart was to offer him these hard-earned dollars. In the task
that Bob McGraw had set himself, moral support was a kindly thing to
offer, but dollars were the things that counted!
However, to offer him financial aid now, no matter how badly he required
money, would not avail. The dictates of his manhood would not permit
him to accept, and until God and man had given her the right to make the
offer she must remain silent.
“I can wait here until you're ready to come for me, Bob,” she said
bravely. “It's a big task--a man's work--that you're going to do, and
win or lose, I want you to fight the good fight. I know the kind of man
I want to marry. If he starts anything that's big and noble and worthy
of him, I want him to finish it--if he wants to marry me. Success or
failure counts but little with men like you; it is only the fight
that matters, and there are some defeats that are more glorious than
victories. Remember that little jingle, dearie:
The harder you're hit, the higher you bounce,
Be proud of your blackened eye.
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,
But how did you fight--and why?”
“You quoted your Pagan's Litany to me to-night, sweetheart. I want
you to be true to it. I don't know a thing about desert land laws and
riparian rights, but I do know that if you sold your Pagans into bondage
for money to marry me, I'd be ashamed of you--and disappointed. Don't
let your love for me weaken your defenses, Bob. If you win I want to
live with you in Donnaville, but if you lose--I want you to make me a
promise, Bob.”
“You wonderful woman! What is it--you wonderful, wonderful woman?”
“I'm asking for a promise, dear.”
“I'll grant it.”
“If you lose, you'll come to me and we'll be married despite defeat and
failure, and you'll live here, with me--at the Hat Ranch until--”
“Oh, Donnie, girl, I couldn't do that!”
“I understand your point of view. Perhaps you think me bold--or
unconventional. But a woman has certain rights, Bob. She should be given
the right to outline her own ideas of happiness, regardless of tradition
and ancient usage, provided she conforms to all of the law, legal and
moral. If you go forth to battle and they slaughter you, I claim the
right to pick up your poor battered old heart and give it the only
comfort--I mean, if I have to wait, I love you enough to work with
you--and for you--when further waiting is useless--”
She pressed her face against his great breast and commenced to cry.
“I have never been really happy until you came” she sobbed. “We're
young, Bob--and I do not want to wait--for happiness--until the capacity
for it--is gone.”
He patted the beautiful head, soothing her with tender words, and it was
characteristic of the man that in that instant he made his decision.
“Within six weeks I shall know how long the fight is to last, Donna.
If I can put through a scheme which I have evolved to secure that land
without recourse to the desert land laws--if I can get my applications
filed first in the State Land Office--I shall have won the first battle
of the war. If I fail to do this I shall have lost the land, and without
further ado I shall sell my water-right to the best possible advantage.
The enemy may conclude to pay me a reasonable price for it, rather
than declare war and delay the development of their land. The power
possibilities of my water-right are tremendous and I think I can force a
good price, for I can poke away at my tunnel and by doing the assessment
work I can keep my title alive for a few years. Of course, in the
event that I should, after the lapse of years, be financially unable to
develop my water-right, or interest others in it, I should lose it and
they would grab it, no doubt. But they will buy me out, I think, rather
than brook delay.”
She raised her face, transfigured through the tears.
“Then, win or lose--”
“Win or lose, if you desire it and I can scrape together the price of a
marriage license, we'll be married in six weeks.
“I'm so tired of the desert, dear. I'm lonely.”
“A little like Br'er B'ar, eh, darling! You want to see the other side
of the mountain.” He pressed her to him lovingly. “Of course” (with
masculine inconsistency Bob was beginning to equivocate) “I may not be
able to sell my water-right and the enemy may elect to play a waiting
game and starve me out. In that case, it would not be fair to you to
burden you with a husband whose sole assets are his dreams and his
hopes.”
“That makes no difference” she exclaimed passionately. “We're young.
We'll fight the rest of the battle together.”
“Well, there's strength in numbers, at any rate, beloved. You're my
mascot and I'm bound to win.” He placed his left hand under her chin
and tilted her face upward. He was stooping to seal their compact with
a true lover's kiss, when the sound of footsteps startled them. Both
turned guiltily, to confront Mr. Harley P. Hennage.
“Hah-hah,” puffed Mr. Hennage, “at it again, eh?” He stood at the corner
of the house, with his three gold teeth flashing in the moonlight.
“Kill-joy!” hissed Bob McGraw. “His Royal Highness, Kill-joy the
Thirteenth!”
Harley P. shook a fat forefinger at the lovers. “If I was a young
feller, Bob McGraw--”
“Mr. Hennage, you're an old snooper, that's what you are!” cried Donna.
“You're all the time snooping.”
“Explain this unwarranted intrusion, Harley P. Hennage” Bob demanded, as
he advanced with outstretched hand to greet the gambler. “I'll have you
know that in approaching this ranch hereafter, you will be required to
halt at the front gate and whistle, cough, stamp your feet, yell or fire
six shots from a Colts revolver--”
“You mean a presidential salute o' twenty-one twelve-inch guns” retorted
Harley P. “I ain't no snooper. I've wore corns on my hands a-bangin'
that there iron gate to announce my approach, an' it wasn't no use; so I
just made up my mind you was ready to receive me an' I come ramblin' in.
Donnie, you know I ain't one o' the presumin' kind.”
He held out a hand to Bob and another to Donna. “How?” he queried, and
made swift appraisal of Bob McGraw from heels to hair. “You've filled
out a whole lot since the last time I seen you standin' up. How's
tricks?”
“Great. I'll be out in a day or two.”
The gambler nodded his approval of this cheerful news. Donna brought
out another chair and the trio sat in the secluded patio and talked
generalities for ten minutes. Donna knew that Mr. Hennage must have some
reason for calling other than a mere desire to pay his respects to Bob,
and presently he unbosomed himself.
“Our mutual friend, Miss Pickett, has a notice pasted up on the wall o'
the post-office, advertisin' a registered letter for one Robert McGraw.”
The gambler tittered foolishly. “Ain't a soul can tell Miss Pickett
who the feller is or where he's at, except me an' Doc Taylor an' Miss
Donna--an' we're all swore to secrecy, so I come down to scheme out a
way to bell the cat--meanin' Miss Pickett” he added, apparently as an
afterthought.
“A letter for me?” Bob was surprised. “Why, it's years since I have
received a letter. I wonder who could know that I might be found in San
Pasqual I didn't tell anybody I was headed this way, and as a matter of
fact I hadn't intended staying here beyond that first night.”
“Well, there's a letter there all right,” reiterated Mr. Hennage, “an'
if I was called on to give a guess who sent it I'd bet a stack o'
blue chips I could hit the bull's eye first shot. A dry, purse-proud
aristocrat, with gray chin whiskers an' a pair o' bespectacled blue
lamps that'd charm a Gila monster, they're that shiny, lined up at the
Silver Dollar bar the other day an' bought a drink for himself. Yes, he
drank alone--which goes to prove that men with money ain't always got
the best manners in the world. Well, after stowin' away his little jolt,
he comes fussin' around among the boys, askin' which one of 'em is Mr.
Robert McGraw. Of course he didn't get no information, an' wouldn't
'a got it if the boys had it. So he goes down to see Miss Pickett, an'
bimeby me an' him meets up in front o' the eatin' house, an' he up an'
asked me if I could tell him who owns that little roan cayuse kickin' up
his heels over in the feed corral.
“Of course, I seen right off that Miss Pickett had her suspicions an'
had sicked this stranger onto me; so when he informed me that he'd been
told I knew the name o' the little hoss' owner, I told him I did--that
the little roan hoss belonged to a Mexican friend o' mine by the name o'
Enrique Maria Jose Sanchez Flavio Domingo Miramontes.
“He give me a sour look at that. 'Well, that don't correspond none with
the initials on the saddle' he says.
“'Shucks,' I says, 'that don't signify nothin'. Mexicans is the biggest
hoss thieves living besides, I ain't feelin' disputatious to-night, so
I'll just close up my game an' go get my scoffin's.'
“'But I must find this man' he says, 'It means a great deal to him--an'
me.'
“'What do you call a great deal?'
“'Money' he says.
“I says: 'See here, pardner, don't you go givin' no money to no Mexican,
because he'll only gamble it away on three-card monte.'
“'I don't mean your Mexican friend,' he says, like a snappin' turtle,
'I'm after a man named Robert McGraw.'
“'Oh,' I says, 'you mean that red-headed outlaw from up country? Why
I didn't know he was wanted. What's it this time? He ain't got himself
mixed up in more trouble, has he?'
“'I prefer to refrain from discussin' the details,' says this wealthy
gent, 'with a perfect stranger.'
“'Oh, very well' I says. 'I didn't seek this interview, but when you
mentioned the hoss I could tell by the look in your eye that McGraw's
been robbin' you o' somethin'. Well, you might own that hoss, but you've
got to prove property. McGraw sold the hoss to Enrique an' lit out for
Bakersfield, an' I won the hoss from Enrique at faro. I been keepin' him
in the corral in order to give the Mexican a chance to buy him back. But
McGraw's not in town. He won't be here for a week or two yet.'
“'Thank you, my man,' says he, an' pulls a card, just about the time I
was gettin' ready to pull his nose. 'If you should see Mr. McGraw,
you might be good enough, to tell him he can learn of somethin' to his
advantage by communicatin' with me right away.'
“'Well, my man,' I says, 'I do hope it's an alibi,' an' I took the card
an' he went back to Miss Pickett. I want to tell you, children, that any
time Miss Molly thinks she can spring a secret out o' me she's got to go
some.”
Mr. Hennage chuckled, produced a white square of cardboard and handed it
to Bob. Donna, leaning over his shoulder, read:
MR. T. MORGAN CAREY PRESIDENT INYO LAND & IRRIGATION COMPANY, 414-422
SOUTHERN TRUST BUILDING, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
“I've heard of that fellow before,” mused Bob, “and it strikes me his
name is associated with some unpleasant memory, but I can't recall just
what it is. However, I can hazard a good guess as to what he desires
to see me about. I'm glad you didn't tell him where I might be found,
Hennage. It was thoughtful of you. I do not care to meet T. Morgan
Carey--yet.”
“Well,” said Mr. Hennage, “he's a smart man an' smells o' ready money.
However, I wasn't goin' to give him no information until I'd talked
with you first, although my main idea was to throw Miss Pickett off the
scent. I'm goin' up to Bakersfield to-night, Bob, and just to keep up
appearances, you give me an order for that registered letter, datin'
the order from Bakersfield, to-morrow, an' I'll mail that order from
Bakersfield to myself in San Pasqual. Then to-morrow night when I get
back I'll go to the post-office for my mail. I ain't had a letter come
to me in ten years. Miss Pickett'll give me the letter, I'll open it
right in front o' her an' flash the order for the registered letter, an'
the old gossip'll be annoyed to death to think she's lost the trail.”
When presently Bob went into the house to write the desired order for
Harley P., Donna and the gambler were left alone for a few minutes.
Instantly Mr. Hennage became serious.
“Looky here. Miss Donnie,” he said, “Bob McGraw's free, white an'
twenty-one an' he can play his own hand. I ain't one of the presumin'
kind an' I hate to tell any man his own business, but if twenty years
o' gamblin' an' meetin' all kinds an' conditions o' men ain't made me
as fly as a road-runner, then that there artesian well is spoutin' mint
juleps. Say, Miss Donnie, if ever I see a cold-blooded, fishy, snaky,
ornery man, it's this T. Morgan Carey--an' at that he's a dead ringer
for a church deacon. That Carey man would steal a hot stove without
burnin' himself. Now, this young Bob is an impulsive cuss, an' if he
has any dealin's of a money nature with this sweet-scented porch-climber
that's on his trail, you take a tip from Harley P. Hennage, Miss Donnie,
an' act as lookout on Bob's game. Miss Donnie, I can tell a crook in
the dark. Let a crook try to buck my game an' I have him spotted in a
minute. I just _feel_ 'em.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hennage. I have great faith in your judgment.”
“Well, generally speakin', I call the turn, if I do say so myself.”
He sat there, his bow-legs spread apart, his hands folded across his
ample abdomen, staring thoughtfully at the little white cross down at
the end of the garden.
“You're a heap like your mother” he said presently, and sighed.
When Bob returned with the order for the registered letter, Mr. Hennage
tucked it carefully in his side coat pocket; then from his rear hip
pocket he produced Bob McGraw's automatic gun.
“I took charge o' this the night o' the mix-up” he explained as he
returned it. He looked hard at Bob. “When you're ready to toddle about”
he added, with a lightning wink and a slight movement of his fat thumb
and forefinger, as if counting a stack of imaginary bills, “send Sam
Singer up to let me know. _Comprende, amigo?”_
Bob smiled at this sinful philanthropist. “Not necessary, old man--if
you'll drop in at the Kern County Bank and Trust Company in Bakersfield
to-morrow and get me a check-book. I have owed you fifty for three years
and I'd like to square up.”
“Sure you ain't bluffin' on no pair?”
“Thank you, Harley. I have a small stake.”
“Well, holler when you're hit.” He waved his hand and departed with a
“_Buenas noches,_ children.”
Scarcely had the gate slammed behind him when Bob turned to Donna with
beaming face.
“They're after my water-right, sweetheart--they're after it already!”
His exultant laugh rang through the patio, “I knew I was treading on
somebody's toes when I filed on that water, Donna. By George, I must
investigate T. Morgan Carey and ascertain the kind of man I have to
fight.”
“He came here looking for you a week after you arrived. Doesn't that
seem strange? How did he discover you had a water-right, investigate it,
ascertain its value and then, come seeking you, all in the course of one
week?”
“That is very easily explained, Donna. It merely verifies my suspicions
that there is a ring of land-grabbers operating in this state, which
ring controls some official of the State Land Office and keeps on its
pay-roll an employee in every United States land office in California.
The moment I filed on that water, T. Morgan Carey was notified by his
tool in the State Land Office that Robert McGraw (I gave my address as
Independence, Inyo county) had filed on one hundred thousand miners'
inches of water for power and irrigation. Now, there isn't that much
non-alkaline water available anywhere in the valley--at least under
the control of one man or one corporation, and of course it frightened
Carey. He wired his field engineer, who was probably in Inyo county at
the time, to investigate. The engineer found my location notices tacked
to a cottonwood tree right where I'm going to drive my tunnel, and he
immediately reported to Carey that the location was very valuable. Also
he wired my name and general description and probably stated that the
last seen of me I was headed south for the railroad on a roan bronco.
They've traced me by my horse to San Pasqual, and now they're trying to
find me with a registered letter; very probably acting under the advice
of Miss Pickett, who, apparently, is an elderly bird and not to be
caught with Harley P. Hennage's chaff.
“It's absurdly simple, dear. They want my water, for they must eliminate
competition, and they want to tie me up before I have an opportunity to
sell to somebody who realizes the value of my holdings. Up Inyo way they
know me for a range rider, a desert rat, a ne'er-do-well, and it may be
they are under the impression that I am like most of my kind--that I can
be mesmerized by the sight of four or five thousand dollars.”
“Harley P. will give me your letter to-morrow night and I'll bring
it home with me. We'll know definitely, then, what to expect. In the
meantime, Bob, I think you've dreamed enough for one night. You've been
up all day and you've talked and it's time you went to bed.”
“'Talk'” he echoed, “talk! That's what. I've been talking--talk. But
when I clash with T. Morgan Carey's company I'll talk--turkey. If you'll
kiss me good-night, Donna, I think I can manage to last until morning.”
Late the following afternoon Harley P. Hennage returned from Bakersfield
and at once went to the post-office and secured Bob's registered letter.
He brought it over to Donna at the eating-house, delivering with it a
pantomime of the inquisitive Miss Pickett when she discovered that the
order for delivery of the registered letter to the gambler was dated and
mailed from Bakersfield.
At dinner Bob read the letter and silently handed it over to Donna.
It was from T. Morgan Carey. On behalf of the Inyo Land & Irrigation
Company Carey requested the favor of an interview at an early date to
take up with Bob the matter of purchasing his newly acquired water-right
on Cottonwood lake, or submitting a proposition for consolidation with,
certain rights held by his company. He begged for an early reply.
“Will you reply to his letter?” Donna queried.
“Yes. I shall write him that my location is not for sale.”
“Then write it from Bakersfield” Donna suggested. “Harley P.'s
reputation is bad enough, but you mustn't convict him of lying.”
Three days later Bob's strength had so far returned that Doc Taylor told
him he might leave San Pasqual whenever he pleased. Bob realized that a
longer stay at the Hat Ranch, while inviting enough, would nevertheless
prove expensive, by reason of the retention of his nurse, for Donna
could not continue to entertain him unchaperoned, even in such a
free-and-easy town as San Pasqual, and he was fearful that a longer
stay, even under the prevailing conditions, might prove embarrassing to
Donna, in case interest in his affairs should revive; hence he announced
his determination of going up to San Francisco to recuperate and
complete his plans for the acquisition of thirty-two thousand acres of
the public domain in the desert of Owens river valley.
Donna did not endeavor to dissuade him. She realized that a longer stay
was impossible, much as both desired it, and Bob had his work to do and
not a great deal of time in which to do it. Accordingly Bob issued a
check to Doc Taylor that evening in payment of his fee, dismissed his
nurse and paid her off, and left with Donna another check, to be
cashed by Harley P. Hennage and the proceeds applied to the care and
maintenance of Friar Tuck until Bob's return to San Pasqual.
During the afternoon Bob dispatched Sam Singer to Harley P. Hennage with
a request for a shaving outfit, a shirt, underwear, a necktie and a new
suit of khaki. Armed with information respecting the physical dimensions
of Mr. McGraw, the gambler had attended to Bob's shopping, and upon
Donna's return to the Hat Ranch that night she discovered that during
her absence a transformation had taken place. Bob was arrayed in his
new habiliments, and paraded up and down the patio for the inspection of
Donna and the nurse.
“Well, Donna” he called to her, “how do I look? Presentable? I know I'm
feeling clean and respectable again, at any rate, and I've asked Sam
Singer to bury that ruin of rags I wore into town.”
“Your gun hangs below the tail of your khaki coat.”
“Then I'll tuck it up under my arm.”
Donna helped him remove the coat, after which he buckled the belt over
his right shoulder, permitting the gun to hang securely in the holster
under his left arm.
“Now, I don't look so confoundedly woolly and western” he said. “I do
hate to go about looking like the hero of a dime novel. I suppose if
a tourist saw that gun hanging down he'd think I was bloodthirsty. It
would never occur to him that a gun comes in handy in the wilderness.”
“Why not leave it here until your return?”
Bob grinned. “It's a good gun, Donna. I might be able to pawn it for
enough to help out on my return trip. Of course I have a watch, but its
hockable value is negative. When I was very young I was foolish enough
to have my initials engraved on the case, but of course I know better
now--by George, Donna girl, I haven't any hat!”
She flashed him one of her rare wonderful smiles. “I was waiting for
you to make that discovery” she said. “You lost your hat the night you
arrived in San Pasqual, but I haven't worried about it. I've been saving
a splendid big sombrero for you, Bob.”
She went to her room, returning presently with a “cowboy” hat that must
have been the joy and pride of the tourist who sacrificed it to the
San Pasqual zephyr. She pinched it to a peak and set it jauntily on his
auburn head, then stood off and surveyed him critically.
“It's a dear” she announced.
“Looks dear, too” he replied whimsically. “Must have cost the original
owner a month's board. Whew! That's a bird of a hat, Donna girl. Thank
you. It's as good a hat as I'll ever own.”
He sat down forthwith, turned back the sweat-band, moistened it slightly
and with the stub of an indelible pencil wrote his name in full. He had
ridden range long enough to acquire the habit of branding his property,
and in that land of breeze and sunshine he knew the dangers that beset a
maverick hat.
That night they walked together in the patio for the last time. Neither
felt inclined to conversation, for the thoughts of each were occupied
with dreams of the future, and the tragedy of that farewell lay heavy
upon them. Lover-like, each exacted from the other a promise to write
every day, and that important detail finally settled, Donna found it
easy enough to be brave and let him go.
At eleven o'clock Sam Singer appeared in the patio to announce his
willingness to trundle Bob up to San Pasqual on the same trackwalker's
velocipede upon which Bob had arrived at the Hat Ranch. The nurse was
not to leave until the next day, and being a discreet woman, and kindly
withal, she had had the delicacy to bid her patient farewell in the
patio. Donna accompanied him to the front gate, and there Bob with many
a fervent promise to take good care of himself--and not to forget to
write every day, took her in his arms, kissed her quickly before the
tears should have a chance to rise, and was gone.
She watched him stride slowly through the gloom to the velocipede
waiting on the tracks; she saw him climb aboard. Then the Indian's body
bent over the levers and the machine glided away into the night. She
stood at the gate and watched it until it vanished; she waited until
Twenty-six came thundering by at eleven-thirty-five and heard the grind
of the brakes as the long train pulled up at the station. Five minutes
later she heard it pull out of San Pasqual, with many a short and
labored gasp, casting a lurid gleam across the desert as it sped
northward into Tehachapi Pass, carrying Bob McGraw forth to battle, to
fight for his land and his Pagans.
When the last dim flicker of the green tail lights had disappeared Donna
retired to her room and cried herself to sleep. Once more she was left
to battle alone with the world, and the days would be long until Bob
McGraw came back.
Three hours after leaving Donna Corblay at the Hat Ranch, Bob McGraw
alighted from the train at Bakersfield and went at once to a hotel.
He arose late the next morning, breakfasted in the most appalling
loneliness and later wended his way weakly to the bank where his meager
funds were on deposit. Here he had his account balanced and discovered
that his total fortune amounted to a trifle over sixteen hundred
dollars, so he closed out his account and purchased a draft on San
Francisco for the amount of his balance, less sufficient money to pay
his current expenses.
This detail attended to, Mr. McGraw next proceeded to do what he had
always done when in a civilized community--spend his money recklessly.
He went back to the hotel, called Donna on the long-distance phone and
frittered away two dollars in inconsequential conversation. However,
he felt amply rewarded for the extravagance when Donna's voice--deep,
throaty, almost a baritone--came to him over the wire; the delighted,
almost childish cry of amazement which greeted his “Hello, Donna girl”
was music to his soul.
Bob was the kind of man who always thinks of the little things. He knew
Donna had gone to work that morning feeling blue and lonely, and the
substitution of that mood for one of genuine happiness for the rest of
the day Mr. McGraw would have considered cheap at the price of his great
toe or a hastily plucked handful of his auburn locks. As for money--bah!
Had it been his last two dollars it would have made no difference. He
would have telephoned just the same and trusted to heaven to rain manna
for his next meal.
But Bob McGraw was nothing if not an impetuous lover. Even in the case
of one who, like himself, had plans afoot where every dollar counted, we
might pardon readily the expenditure of two dollars on conversation,
in view of the extraordinary circumstances; but Mr. McGraw's next move
savors so strongly of the veal period of his existence that no amount
of extenuating circumstances may be adduced in defense of it. While
the promoter of Donnaville was a true son of the desert, he was
college-bred, and with the sight now, for the first time in several
years, of trolley cars, automobiles and people wearing clean linen, old
memories surged up in Mr. McGraw's damaged breast, and despite the fact
that his long legs were now weak and wobbly from the premature strain
of his journey from the hotel to the bank and back again, he fared forth
once more and pursued the uneven tenor of his way until he found himself
in a florist's shop.
Here no less than six dozen red carnations caught Mr. McGraw's fancy,
the purchase price of which, in addition to the express charges prepaid
to San Pasqual, further denuded him of ten dollars. Into the heart
of this cluster of fragrance he caused to be secreted a tiny envelope
enclosing a card, upon which he had drawn a heart with a feathered arrow
sticking through it; and for fear this symbolic declaration of undying
devotion might not be sufficient, he scrawled beneath it: “Love from
Bob.”
Ah, if he could only have seen Donna's face when the express messenger
next door brought that votive offering in to her! Red carnations were
not frequent in San Pasqual. It was the first lover's bouquet Donna had
ever received and she bent low behind the cash register and kissed
the foolish little card, for the hand of her Bob had touched it! The
carnations she bore home to the Hat Ranch in triumph, and two weeks
later when Soft Wind, a stranger to romance, threw them out, Donna wept.
His mission of love finally accomplished, Bob returned to his hotel and
went to bed. Late that afternoon he arose, much refreshed, dined and
waited around the lobby until it was time for the bus to leave for the
north-bound train.
By nine o'clock next morning he was in San Francisco. He found frugal
lodgings in a third-class hotel, and after writing a letter to Donna,
he went down town, purchased a suit of “store” clothes, and spent the
balance of the day in the public law library.
By nightfall Bob had saturated his brain with legal lore bearing on
every feature of the laws governing the acquisition of lands in the
public domain, and was satisfied that the hazy plan which he had
outlined was not only within the law, but really did have some vague
elements of feasibility. The beauty of Bob's plan, however--the part
that appealed to the sporting instinct in his ultra-sporty soul--lay
in the fact that it would cost him only fifteen hundred dollars to try!
Twelve hundred and seventy-five in preliminary payments, filing fees and
notary's fees, and the balance in hotel bills, traveling expenses,
etc.; but as an offset to his comparatively brilliant prospects of going
hungry and ragged there was the dim, long chance that he _might_ win
millions, provided his venture should be attended with a fair percentage
of supernatural luck. That was all Bob McGraw had to cheer him on to
victory--a million-to-one chance; yet, such was his peculiar mental
make-up, the terrific odds only proved an added attraction.