Casey Dunne pulled a fretful buckskin to a halt as he topped a rise and
looked down on Talapus Ranch. It lay before him, the thousand-odd acres
of it, lush and green beneath the sloping, afternoon sun, an oasis in a
setting of brown, baked earth and short, dry grasses which seldom felt
the magic of the rains. The ranch was owned by Donald McCrae, a pioneer
of the district, and it was the show place of the country. It was
Exhibit A to incomers, a witness to the results of irrigation. The
broad, fat acres were almost level. There was no waste land, no
coulées, no barren hills to discount its value. Every foot of it could
be irrigated, and most of it was actually irrigated and cultivated.
Dunne's eye followed the lines of the ditches, marked by margins of
green willows. They cut through the fields of wheat, of oats, of
alfalfa, timothy, and red clover. They were the main arteries. From
them branched veins supplying the fields with the water that gave them
life--the water without which the land was waste and barren; but with
which it bore marvellously with the stored fertility of fallow
centuries. Away at one end of the ranch, sheltered to north and west by
low hills, was the ranch house itself, surrounded by young orchards,
the stables, the corrals, the granaries, the cattle sheds, tool and
implement houses. At that distance, in the clear, dry air, they looked
like toys, miniatures, sharply defined in angle and shadow. So, too,
the stock grazing in the fields were of lilliputian dimensions.
From where he sat in the saddle Dunne could see the Coldstream,
scarcely more than a large creek, dignified in that land of dryness by
the name of river, whose source was in the great green glaciers and
everlasting snows of the hills. Its banks were green with willow and
cottonwood. It was a treasure stream of untold value. With it the land
prospered; without it the land and the men who peopled the land must
fail.
"And that ranch, and others like it," Dunne muttered through his teeth,
"must go dry and back to brown prairie unless the owners sell out to
that old holdup, York, at his own price. Well, Mr. York----You yellow
devil!"
The last words did not refer to Cromwell York. For, without provocation
or preliminaries, the buckskin's head had dived between his legs, his
back arched like an indignant cat's, and with a vicious squeal he began
to pitch.
Dunne drew his quirt and let him have it. The brown, plaited leather
played like lightning on quarters, flanks, cached head, and flattened
ears.
"No work, and a bellyful of oats three times a day!" he gritted.
"Forgotten who's your boss, hey? I'll show you, you hammer-headed,
saffron-hided----"
"Stay with him, Casey!"
Dunne turned his head, and shut his teeth upon forthcoming references
to his steed's pedigree. A girl, brown, lean, aquiline of feature, sat
astride a big slashing bay, and watched the contest with amusement.
Dunne's face, red from exertion, deepened in colour; for some of his
remarks, though exceedingly apposite, had not been intended for
feminine ears. He answered, between pitches, in the vernacular:
"You bet I will, Sheila! Go to it, old son! Bump to glory if you like!"
But as suddenly as he had begun the buckskin desisted. He heaved a
sigh, stood still, and turned a mildly inquiring, backward eye on his
rider. It was as if he had said: "What! Still there? You surprise me!"
Sheila McCrae laughed. "He's passing it off as a joke, Casey."
"He nearly got me, the old sinner," said Dunne. "Now he'll be good till
next time. You miserable, imitation bad horse, some day I'll manhandle
you."
"Shiner knows you won't," the girl commented.
"He knows you're fond of him. You'll quirt him when he pitches, and
then give him an extra feed."
"Well, maybe," Casey admitted shamelessly. "I like the old hyena. I've
frazzled out leather on his hide that cost more than he did, but I
never went after him right. He certainly can drift when he has to.
What's the news, Sheila? All well at the ranch?"
She nodded, running a keen eye over his face. "All well. But you're the
news bureau, Casey."
"Am I?" he said. "Well, then, I haven't a piece of good news in my
saddlebags--not one."
"I knew it," she said. "Well, it can't be helped, Casey. There will be
some way out. Let's go on to the ranch. Supper will be ready. Most of
the men won't come till afterward. I won't be at your council of war,
but I want you to let me know just what you decide on."
"Of course," he replied. "You've got a better head than most men,
Sheila. I don't know what we will do--haven't a notion. It looks as
though we were up against a tough proposition."
His dejection was apparent, and, womanlike, she tried to cheer him.
Some way would be found. The action of the railway was so high-handed
and unjust that it could not succeed. But though she spoke cheerfully,
her keen eyes were troubled, and her face was clouded as they rode up
to the ranch.
They found Donald McCrae at the stables. He was a dark-faced giant of a
man, and for all his years carried himself as straight as a young pine.
All his life had been spent on the frontier. He had seen it move
westward, and had moved with it from the Great Lakes across the Great
Plains. He had seen it vanish, as the wild pigeon and the buffalo had
gone--mysteriously, in a season, almost. Wheat fields, etched in green
and gold, lay where he had made his lonely camps; orchards nestled by
little lakes and in mountain valleys where he had trapped the beaver;
strings of brass-bound, vestibuled coaches whirled where he had ridden
his pony with the pack train shuffling behind. And here, on the
Coldstream, he had made his last stand, taken up land, and turned, when
past his prime, to the quiet life of a rancher.
"Light down, light down, Casey!" he called. "Put your cayuse in the
stable. Give me Beaver Boy, Sheila. Go up to the house and fix us some
whiskey with a chip of ice in it, like a good girl. Stir up the Chink
as you go through, and make him rustle supper in a hurry. We'll be
right in." He took his daughter's horse, and in the stable turned to
Dunne.
"Well?" he demanded tersely.
"Nothing," Casey replied. "They stand their hand."
"I was afraid of it," said McCrae. "And they outhold us, Casey."
"Yes. Too much money."
"Will they buy us?"
"No. York offered to buy me. I was to be a decoy for the rest, I think.
I refused. Now he will freeze us out."
"Will he?" said McCrae heavily. "Will he? Maybe so. And maybe----" He
did not complete the sentence, but stood at the door, scowling at the
fair fields. "Twenty years back, Casey--yes, ten, even--if a man jumped
my staking I'd have known what to do. We own this water. What's the
difference? Can't the law help us? Do we have to help ourselves?"
"It may come to that," Casey replied. "Yes, it's pretty nearly come to
that, McCrae. I saw a lawyer--one of the best in the business. He says
the odds are against us. They will appeal and appeal--carry it up to
the highest court. Meanwhile our land will be dry likely. We're out on
a limb. If we hang on they shoot, and if we drop off they skin us."
"I guess that's so," said McCrae. "It's a bad fix any way you look at
it. There's the ranch. That ain't so much, far's I'm concerned. I've
been broke before, and I can rustle for myself for years yet. But
there's my wife and Sheila and Alec. It's theirs. I worked for them.
It's all I've got to leave them. You see, Casey, I can't stand to lose
it."
"I know," said Casey sympathetically. "It's a hard position. Look here,
Donald, if you wish it I'll vote for breaking our pool, and each man
doing the best he can for himself."
"No, I didn't mean that," said McCrae. "The railway wouldn't give us a
fair price, and nobody else would buy with this hanging over. I'll
stick. But you, now, it's some different with you. You're young, you
ain't married. It's your stake, of course, but then you've got time
left you to get another. They offered to buy you out. I don't know but
you'd best take their offer. That'll give you something to start on.
None of us will think the less of you for it."
"The agreement was that we were to fight this to a finish. If we sold
out the railway was to buy all or none. If you can stay with that I
can."
"But then, you see, Casey----"
"I see, Donald. You know me better than that."
McCrae slapped him on the shoulder with a huge hand, and his voice took
on the Gaelic accent of his childhood learned from his father, that
McCrae who had in his time ruled a thousand miles of wilderness for the
great fur company.
"I do know ye, boy, and it is proud I will be of it. There's Sheila at
the door, callin' us. A toss of liquor and a bite--it will put the
heart in us again. We must cheer up for the women, lad."
But in spite of this resolution supper was not a merry meal. Talk was
spasmodic, interrupted by long silences. Mrs. McCrae--slight, gentle,
motherly, with wavy silver hair--was plainly worried. Her husband
brooded unconsciously over his plate. Sheila and Casey, conversing on
topics which neither was thinking about, blundered ridiculously. And
the son of the house, Alec McCrae, a wiry, hawk-faced young man of
twenty-two, strongly resembling his sister, was almost silent.
Soon after supper the ranchers who had banded together for mutual
protection began to arrive by saddle and buckboard. Men of all ages,
they comprised a dozen descents and nationalities, the Celtic and
Anglo-Saxon strains predominating.
There was Oscar Swanson, heavy, slow-moving, blond as Harold Haarfagar,
a veritable Scandinavian colossus; Wyndham, clean-bred, clean-built, an
English gentleman to his fingers' tips; old Ike James, whose tongue
carried the idiom and soft-slurring drawl of his native South; Eugéne
Brulé, three parts Quebec French and one part Cree; Carter, O'Gara,
Bullen, Westwick, and half a dozen others.
One and all they were wind-and-sun tanned, steady of eye, mostly quiet
and brief of speech. Life was a serious business with them just then.
Their ranches were their all. They had given hostages to competence. Up
to a year ago they had believed themselves lucky, independent, on the
way to modest fortune. Then came alarming rumours; next, construction
of works confirming the rumours. Now they were come to hear the worst
or best from the lips of their envoy, Casey Dunne.
They listened as he gave details of his interviews with York and Wade,
lips grimly wrapped around cigars and pipe stems, troubled eyes
straining through the blue smoke at the speaker.
"And you couldn't get an injunction?" said Wyndham.
"No. The judge said that the mere fact of building a dam did not show
an intention to interfere with anybody's rights."
"Didn't--eh?" snapped Carter, at high tension. "Then I'd like to know
what would show it!"
"So would I," said Dunne. "Anyway, what the judge said went. The long
and short of it is that we can't go to law till they actually take our
water. Wade advises us to sell out if we can get a fair price. And
that's all I have to report, gentlemen."
"A fair price!" exclaimed Carter. "That's all right to talk about--but
who'll give us one? The railway won't buy--it's cheaper to freeze us
out. Nobody else will. And, if it comes to that, what is a fair price?
Land is boosting everywhere. If we sold now we'd just be robbing
ourselves."
"S'pose they starts to rustle our water and we go to law," said old
James, "does this here lawsuit tangle up things so's't we get plenty of
water till the case is tried?"
"I'm afraid not," Casey replied. "That's the worst of it. Wade seemed
to think that once they got the water they could keep it until the case
was settled by the last court of appeal. And that would put us out of
business."
"It's sure a mean jack pot," said James. "It looks like they have it on
us every way. The prospects for our emergin' winners ain't cheerin'
none, but, gents, speakin' for myself alone, I wouldn't sell at no
price. I'm aimin' to live where I be till you-alls beds me down for
keeps. I reckon I'll stay with the game while I got a chaw and a
ca'tridge left. I may be froze out, but dog-gone my ol' hide if I'll be
bluffed out. This here ain't none different from claim jumpin'. I own
my water, and I'm goin' to keep on havin' it. And the man that shets it
off will be mighty apt to see how they irrigate them green fields 'way
over yander 'cross the River Jordan."
His words were like fire in dry straw.
"That's right, Uncle Ike!" cried Carter.
"By George I'm with you myself!" cried Wyndham.
"_Moi aussi!_" exclaimed Brulé. "By damn, yes!"
"Yes, let 'em try it!" cried young Alec McCrae, his eyes gleaming like
those of a fierce young hawk that sights its first quarry. "Let 'em try
it!" he repeated ominously, nodding to himself.
But on the excitement of the others Donald McCrae's words fell like an
icy douche: "Men, this is plain foolishness. Alec, let me hear no more
of it from you. James, you should know better. We can't enforce claim
law here. The old days are gone."
"I ain't gone yet, nor you ain't," old James replied, his eyes gleaming
balefully through slitted lids. "I give it out now that I don't set
quiet and see my ditches go dry. Long's the law won't help us--and the
law never gave no action in the West nohow--I'm goin' to help myself. I
ain't raisin' the long yell for partners, neither!"
"You can't bring back the old days," McCrae repeated. "I stand to lose
as much as any man here, but shooting one or two men who are doing what
they are paid to do won't help us. You all know that."
"That's so," Casey admitted. "That's the last thing we can afford to
do."
"Well, maybe you boys are right," said the old man reluctantly. "Maybe
I ain't up to date. But what you goin' to do? You got to do somethin'."
"Yes," said Wyndham. "They are getting ahead with their work. It won't
be long till that dam is finished. Then they'll take the water from us,
that's certain."
But here Big Oscar received an inspiration. He had been listening
carefully, casting mildly inquiring blue eyes on the speakers. He was a
good listener, was Oscar, and he seldom spoke. His mental engine, so
far as could be judged by its verbal expression, turned over stiffly.
Apparently it had never been run enough to be smoothed down--at least
in English. But his contribution to the debate at this juncture was
noteworthy. Said he:
"Say, Ay tenk Ay blow dat dam, easy!"
They stared at him for a moment, while the suggestion took root. It was
obvious that if the dam were destroyed the water would remain theirs
until it was rebuilt. True, its destruction would be a lawless act,
amounting to a declaration of war; but war on them had already been
declared. They would be merely striking the first blow, and here was
the logical spot to strike.
"Good boy, Oscar," said Carter. "I believe that's the answer."
"What do you think, McCrae?" asked Wyndham.
"I'm against violence in any form," said McCrae slowly. "But they are
forcing it on us. They want to steal our ranches. It amounts to that.
This is the only thing we can do, and when we do it we'll do it right."
A round of applause greeted his concluding words. Old Ike James
whispered to his neighbour:
"This here Highland Scotch stock is sure a funny proposition. What they
start with a pra'ar they're mighty apt to end with a gun. Ol' Donald's
a sure-'nough wolf when he gets goin'."
"And you, Dunne?" asked Wyndham.
"I'm in. I guess it's a case. Oscar, you have a great head. When shall
we start the fireworks, and who's to start 'em?"
Oscar, flattered by the compliment and the unusual attention, picked up
his hat. "Ay ban good powder man. Ay tenk Ay start him now when Ay gat
some powder," said he. He smiled at them serenely. "Mebbe if t'ree,
four you faller come by me you svear Ay ban home all night?" he
suggested ingenuously.
But there was an objection to the immediate execution of the plan. They
were just then getting all the water they needed. The farther ahead
they could set the date of the destruction of the dam while retaining
the water, the farther off would be the date when it could be rebuilt,
as they had no doubt it would be. Thus they might tide through the hot,
dry summer. Whereas, if it were blown up now it might be repaired and
their water taken when they needed it most.
Just then it seemed wise to pursue a policy of masterly inactivity. But
the mere fact of having settled on a course of action cleared the air,
cheered them. In place of a despondent lethargy there was a nervous
tension, as before a battle. They laughed and joked amid the bobbing
stable lanterns as they harnessed and saddled; and they rode away from
Talapus Ranch one and all in better spirits than they had come.