Bob tore the letter open with one rip, and read it with his back to the
desk:
DEAR SIR:
We regret to say that dredging and other immediate repairs on our canal
make a rather heavy assessment imperative. The work must be done at
once, and the company's funds are entirely exhausted. Your assessment
is $10 an acre; and this must be paid before we can serve you with any
more water.
Very truly,
DILLENBECK WATER Co.,
Per R. Jenkins, Pres. & Mgr.
Ten dollars an acre! Fifty thousand dollars! Bob walked slowly out of
the hotel. There was no use to go up to his room. No sleep to-night.
Jenkins' plot was clear now. He had merely been waiting for the most
critical time. The next two waterings were the most vital of the whole
season. The little squares that form the boll were taking shape. If
the cotton did not get water at this time the bolls would fall off
instead of setting.
Bob walked down the street, on through to the Mexican section of town,
thinking. He must do something, but what?
It was a sweltering night and people were mostly outdoors. Under the
vines in front of a small Mexican house a man played a guitar and a
woman hummed an accompaniment. Across the street a little Holiness
Mission was holding prayer meeting, and through the open windows an
organ and twenty voices wailed out a religious tune.
Bob turned and walked back rapidly, and crossed the Mexican line. At
the Red Owl he might hear something.
It was so hot that even the gamblers were listless to-night. The only
stir of excitement was round one roulette wheel. Bob started toward
the group, and saw the centre of it was Reedy Jenkins with his hat
tipped back, shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled to elbows,
playing stacks of silver dollars on the "thirty."
Bob leaned against one of the idle tables and talked with the game
keeper, a pleasant, friendly young chap.
"Wonder what the Mexicans are going to do with so many motor trucks?"
the gamester asked casually.
"Motor trucks?" Bob repeated.
"Yes, they unloaded a whole string of them over here to-day. One of
the boys said he counted twenty."
As Bob left the gambling hall Reedy was still playing the roulette
wheel at twenty dollars a throw.
Rogeen got his car and started south. He would see for himself if
there was any basis for Jenkins' claim that immediate work must be done
on the water system. It was late and there were no lights at any of
the little ranch shacks over the fields.
Chandler's place was dark like the rest. They were sleeping. Their
notice would not come until to-morrow or next day. He would not wake
them. Anyway to-night he had forgotten his fiddle, but he grimly
remembered his gun.
He drove through the Red Butte Ranch without stopping. He could
scarcely bear even to look to the right or left at those long rich rows
of dark green cotton.
Turning off the main road south toward the Dillenbeck canal, something
unusual stirred in Bob's consciousness. At first he could not think
what was the matter; but directly he got it--the car was running
differently. This road across a patch of the desert was usually so
bumpy one had to hold himself down. To-night the car ran smoothly.
The road had been worked--was being worked now--for a quarter of a mile
ahead he heard an engine and made out some sort of road-dragging outfit.
The simplest way in the world to make a road across a sandy desert, or
to work one that has been used, is to take two telephone poles, fasten
them the same distance apart as automobile wheels, hitch on an engine,
and drag them lengthwise along the road. This not only grinds down the
uneven bumps but packs the sand into a smooth, firm bed for the
machine's wheels.
That was what they were doing here. Bob stayed back and watched. He
did not want to overtake them. The road-breaking outfit crossed the
canal directly and headed south by east off into the desert. Bob
stopped his machine on the plank bridge, and watched them pull away
into the night. Then he gave a long, speculative whistle.
"I wonder," he said, "what philanthropist is abroad in the land at one
o'clock in the morning?"
Rogeen left his machine and followed on foot along the bank of the
canal for two miles. The water was flowing freely. There was no sign
of immediate need for dredging. Some of the small ranches were getting
water to-night. He was glad of that. The Red Butte had finished
watering its five-thousand-acre crop a week ago. It would be three
days before they would need to begin again.
He went back to his machine and drove clear up to the intake from the
Valley Irrigation Company's canal. The water was running smoothly all
the way. The ditches seemed open, and in fair shape. Some work was
needed of course every day; but there was no call for any quick,
expensive repairs.
[Illustration: "Make it plain to the Chandler girl that this is her
last chance to sell before I ruin her crop."]
No, Jenkins' call for money was purely for himself and not the water
system. The whole thing was robbery. But how could it be prevented?
Injunctions by American courts did not extend over here, and Reedy
undoubtedly had an understanding with the Mexican authorities.
There was nothing for it, thought Bob, but to choose one of two evils:
Be robbed of $50,000, or lose five thousand acres of cotton. He set
his teeth and started the little car plugging back across the sand
toward the American line.