No one has ever satisfactorily explained the rapidity with which news
travels in sparsely settled communities. But the fact remains
undisputed. Also the further fact that its accuracy is in inverse ratio
to its rapidity, which does not need so much explanation. The men who
had been at Talapus said nothing of the meeting, nothing of the purpose
of it. And yet the gathering was speedily known from one end of the
country to the other in conjunction with startling rumours, none of
them authentic or traceable, but all disquieting. The report gained
currency that the ranchers contemplated nothing less than an armed
attack on the ditch and dam construction camps, for the purpose of
running the workmen out of the country.
This came to the ears of Sleeman, who was the local sales agent of the
railway's land department; and Sleeman passed it on to his chief, who
thought it of sufficient importance to put up to York, seeing that that
gentleman was responsible for the conception of the department's policy
in this instance.
York, while not attaching much importance to the story, thought of the
remarks of Casey Dunne. It was just possible that the ranchers might
perpetrate some hostile act. It happened, too, that at this time the
engineer in charge of the Coldstream irrigation project took sick,
necessitating the appointment of a new man. And it further happened
that another engineer in the railway's employ, named Farwell, had got
through with a difficult piece of tunnelling, and was ready for fresh
work.
"I'll send Farwell down there," said York, speaking to Carrol, who was
the head of his land department.
Now, Farwell was altogether too good a man to waste on a little,
puttering job like this. He had seen service in half a dozen countries,
always with credit to himself, and he was in line for big promotion.
But against his undoubted ability and the fact that he was a tremendous
driver, who spared no one, not even himself, was the further fact that
he was harsh, domineering, impatient, lacking tact or diplomacy. He was
a fighter by instinct. He preferred to break through than to go around.
He antagonized rather than conciliated. But in the event of real
trouble he was there with the genuine, hall-marked goods, as he had
shown on several occasions when a hard man had been needed. The land
department, however, had it's own staff, and Carrol did not like the
importation of an outsider.
"No need to send Farwell," said he. "We can look after it ourselves."
"Farwell's the best man we can have there if anything goes wrong," said
York positively. "He'll bring these ranchers to time. I'll send him."
Farwell descended on the Coldstream country in a bitter temper, for the
job was far beneath his professional dignity as he looked at it, and he
knew that in the meantime others would get better work to which he
considered himself entitled. Indeed, he had come within an ace of
resigning, and had insisted, as a condition, on a definite promise of
something very good in the immediate future.
When he stepped off the train at the little Coldstream station he was
already prejudiced against the country, its inhabitants, and its
future; and what he saw as the train rumbled away into the distance did
not tend to improve his temper.
Coldstream itself for years had amounted to little more than a
post-office address. From the time of its building in the days of a
boom which had no foundation, and therefore no permanence, it had
retrogressed steadily. Now it was picking up. But although times were
beginning to improve, it still bore many of the earmarks of an
abandoned camp. The struggle for life during the lean years was more
apparent in outward sign than was the present convalescence. Most of
the houses were now occupied, but almost all were unpainted, stained
gray and brown by wind and sun and snow, forlorn and hideous things of
loosened boards and flapping ends of tarred sheeting.
Although it was only spring, the road which wound from nowhere between
the unsightly shacks was ankle deep in dust. The day was unseasonably
warm, the air still. The dust lay on the young leaves of the occasional
clumps of cottonwoods, and seemed to impregnate the air so that it was
perceptible to the nostrils--a warm, dry, midsummer smell, elusive, but
pervasive. The whole land swam and shimmered in hot sunshine. The
unpainted buildings danced in it, blurring with the heat waves. Save
for the occasional green of cottonwoods, the land lay in the brown
nakedness of a dry spring, wearying the eye with its sameness.
Farwell swore to himself at the prospect, feeling his grievance against
his employers and the world at large become more acute. He considered
himself ill-used, slighted, and he registered a mental vow to rush his
work and be quit of the accursed place at the earliest possible moment.
The individual who seemed to combine the functions of station agent and
baggage hustler approached, wheeling a truck. He was a small man,
gray-headed, with a wrinkled, wizened face, and eyes of faded blue. To
him the engineer addressed himself.
"I'm Farwell," said he.
The agent halted the truck, smiled in friendly fashion, swung around,
and presented his left ear cupped in his left hand. At the same time a
strange, pungent odour assailed Farwell's nostrils.
"What did yez say?" he asked. "Onforch'nately me right a-cowstick organ
is temp'rar'ly to the bad from shootin' a po-o-olecat. The gun busted
on me, and I massacreed the marauder wid an ax. Did iver ye disthroy a
skunk wid an ax? Then don't. Avoid mixin' it wid the od'riferous
animals. Faix, I've buried me clothes--it was a new nightshirt, a
flannel wan that I had on--and scrubbed meself wid kerosene and
whale-oil soap that I keep f'r the dog, and I'm no bed of vi'lets yet.
I can see ye wrinkle yer nose, and I don't blame yez. I'll move to the
down-wind side of yez. Ye see, it was like this: The t'ief iv the
wurruld was in me chicken house----"
"I said I was Farwell," that gentleman interrupted.
"Farrel, is ut?" said the station agent. "I knowed a Farrel thirty
years gone. W'u'd he be yer father, now? His people come from Munster,
if I mind right. Ye do not favour him, but maybe ye take after yer
mother. Still, I'm thinkin' ye can't be his son, on account of yer age;
though he turned Mormon, and I heerd----"
"I said Farwell, not Farrel," the engineer interpolated. "Richard K.
Farwell." He thought it all the introduction necessary.
The station agent extended a welcoming hand. "Me own name is C. P.
Quilty," said he, "the initials indicatin' Cornelius Patrick, and I'm
glad to know ye. There's mighty few drummers stops off here now, but
trade's bound to pick up, wid the land boom an' all." A sidelong glance
at the perfecto clenched between Farwell's teeth. "W'u'd seegyars be
yer line, now? I'm a judge of a seegyar meself, though the bum smokes
they do be makin' nowadays has dhruv me to the pipe. No offense to you,
Mr. Farrel, for no doubt ye carry a better line nor most. If ye like
I'll introduce ye to Bob Shiller, that keeps the hotel----"
"Look here," snapped Farwell, at the end of his patience, "I'm Farwell,
the engineer come down to take charge of this irrigation job. I want to
know if there are any telegrams for me, and where the devil the camp
is, and how I get to it. And that's about all I want to know, except
whether I can get a bath at this hotel of Shiller's."
And Cornelius Patrick Quilty shook hands with him again.
"To think iv me takin' ye fur a drummer, now!" he exclaimed in
self-reproach. "Sure, I've often heard of yez. I live over beyant, in
the shack wid the picket fince on wan side iv ut. The other sides
blowed down in a dust storm a year gone, and I will erect them some day
when I have time. But ye can't miss me place, more be token half the
front iv the house was painted wanst. They say the paint was stole, but
no matter. Bein' both officials iv the comp'ny, Mr. Farrel, we will
have much to talk over. No doubt ye have been referred to me for
details iv the disturbin' rumours. Well, it's this wa-ay: I am in the
service iv the comp'ny, and I dhraw me pay wid regularity, praise be,
so that I w'u'd not for a moment think of questionin' the wisdom iv the
policy iv me superiors----"
"That's right--don't!" snapped Farwell. "Now, get me those telegrams,
if there are any, and tell me what I want to know."
A hurt look crept into Mr. Quilty's eyes of faded blue.
"I regret that I have no messages for ye, _sor_," said he. "The
comp'ny's land agent, Mr. Sleeman, will take ye wherever ye want to go
in his autymobile. Ye will see his sign as ye go uptown. But, speakin'
as man to man, Mr. Farwell, and havin' the interests of thim that pays
me to heart, I w'u'd venture on a little advice."
"Well, what is it?" asked Farwell.
"It's this," said Quilty. "The men hereabouts--the ranchers--is sore.
Don't make them sorer. Duty is duty, and must be done, iv coorse. But
do ut as aisy as ye can." He broke off, eying two riders who were
approaching the station.
"Who are those people?" asked Farwell.
"The man is Misther Casey Dunne, and the young leddy is Miss Sheila
McCrae," Quilty informed him.
"I've heard of Dunne," said Farwell, who had done so from York. "Who's
the McCrae girl? Is she one of the same bunch?"
"_Miss_ McCrae is a _leddy_," said Quilty, with quiet dignity. "And
Casey Dunne is--is a dom good friend of mine."
The riders drew up at the platform, and Casey Dunne hailed the agent.
"Hallo, Corney! Any freight for Talapus or Chakchak?" The last was the
name of his own ranch, and in the Chinook jargon signified an eagle.
"Freight for both iv yez," Quilty replied. "But sure ye won't be takin'
it on the cayuses. Howdy, Miss Sheila! Will ye 'light and try the
comp'ny's ice wather wid a shot iv a limon, or shall I bring ye a
pitcher?"
"I'll 'light, Mr. Quilty, thank you," said Sheila. She swung down from
Beaver Boy, letting the lines trail, and Dunne dropped off Shiner.
Quilty introduced the engineer punctiliously. Farwell raised his hat,
and bowed to the girl, but did not offer his hand to Casey Dunne.
"I've heard of you--from York," he said meaningly.
"I've heard that Mr. York has a wonderful memory for faces and names,"
said Casey. "Quite flattering to be remembered by him. I've only met
him once."
"He remembers you very well," Farwell returned dryly.
Sheila McCrae stood by, watching them, hearing the rasp of steel
beneath the apparently casual words. And unconsciously she measured the
men, one against the other.
Farwell was slightly the taller and much the heavier. He created the
impression of force, of dominance. The heavy, square chin, the wide,
firm mouth, the black, truculent eyes beneath heavy brows, all marked
the master, if not the tyrant. His body was thick and muscular, and he
stood solidly, confident of himself, of his position, a man to command.
Casey Dunne was lighter, leaner, more finely drawn. Lacking the
impression of pure force, of sheer power, he seemed to express the
capacity for larger endurance, of better staying qualities, of greater
tensile strength. He was cast in another mould, a weapon of a different
pattern. Farwell might be compared to a battle-axe; Dunne to a rapier.
And being of the battle-axe type Farwell saw no reason to mince matters
with Dunne, whom he looked upon as a leader of the alleged trouble
makers, and therefore directly responsible for his, Farwell's, presence
in that confounded desert.
"No," he said, "York doesn't forget much. And he hears quite a lot,
too. I've come down to finish this dam, and complete the irrigation
ditches, and I'm going to rush the job."
"It's pretty well along, I hear," Dunne commented. "You'll be putting
the finishing touches to it pretty soon. Quite a nice piece of work,
that. You want to be careful of the sidehill ditches, though. They
wash, sometimes."
Farwell was taken aback. There was no hint of insincerity in the
other's tone. It was impersonal, as if he were not at all concerned.
"I'll be careful enough," he returned. He would have liked to tell
Dunne that he was also prepared to take care of any trouble that might
arise, but on second thought he decided to wait for a better opening.
"I'll be plenty careful of a good many things," he added significantly.
"Nothing like it," Dunne rejoined. "Water finds the weak spots every
time. Well, good morning, Mr. Farwell. Glad to see you at my ranch any
time. Ask anybody where it is."
Farwell stared after him for a moment, a little puzzled and by no means
satisfied with himself. He had come openly contemptuous of the
ranchers, thinking of them as rough, unlettered farmers who must
necessarily stand in awe of him. But here was a different type. "Pretty
smooth proposition, that Dunne," he growled to himself. "'Water finds
the weak spots,' hey! Now, I wonder what he meant by that?"
He picked up his grip, and walked up into the town, finding the
company's office without difficulty, and introduced himself to Sleeman,
the sales agent, whom he had never met.
Mr. Sleeman possessed a shrewd eye, and a face indicative of an ability
to play a very good game. He was in his shirt sleeves for greater
comfort, and he smoked particularly strong plug tobacco in a brier
pipe.
"What's in these yarns, anyhow?" Farwell asked, when they had got down
to business.
"Ask me something easier," Sleeman replied. "I gave headquarters all I
heard. If I were you I'd keep my eyes open."
"I'll do that," said Farwell. "These fellows always do a lot of
talking, and let it go at that."
"Not here," said Sleeman. "The men who will be affected aren't doing
any talking at all. That looks bad to me. They are just standing pat
and saying nothing. But you can bet they are doing some thinking.
Mighty bad lot to run up against if they start anything--old-timers,
ex-punchers, prospectors, freighters, and fur men, with a sprinkling of
straight farmers. The worst of it is that these rumours are hurting us
already, and they'll hurt us worse."
"How?"
"Landlookers hear them, and shy off. No man wants to buy into a feud
with his neighbours--to buy land with water that somebody else thinks
he ought to have. Before I can make a showing in actual sales this
thing has got to be settled."
"Huh!" said Farwell. "Well, I'll finish the job, and turn the water
down the ditches, and that's all I have to do. I met one of these
fellows at the station--Dunne, his name is."
"Oh, you met Casey Dunne. And what do you think of him?"
"Don't like him; he's too smooth. Looked me square in the eye, and told
me to be careful with sidehill ditches, and so on, just as if it didn't
affect him at all. Too innocent for me. I had a notion to tell him he
wasn't fooling me a little bit."
"H'm!" said Sleeman. "Well, I give Casey credit for being a good man.
He has a big stake here--owns a lot of land besides his ranch. It's
make or break with him."
"Then I'm sorry for him. He had a girl with him--McCrae her name is.
Who's she?"
"Her father owns Talapus Ranch. It's the biggest and best here. Good
people, the McCraes."
"And I suppose Dunne's going to marry her? Is that it?"
"I never heard so. But if he is I don't blame him; she's all right,
that girl."
Farwell grunted. He had rather liked Sheila's looks, but, being a man
of violent prejudices, and disliking Dunne instinctively, he found it
easy to dislike his friends. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do," he
announced. "I'm going to put it up to these fellows straight the first
chance I get that we don't care a hang for anything they may do. If
they want trouble they can come a-running."
"Well," Sleeman commented, "of course, I'm here to sell land. The
company is my boss, and naturally I back its play. But my personal
opinion is that it would have been better to have bought those fellows
out, even at fancy prices, than to ride over them roughshod. They're
sore now, and you can't wonder at it. If I were you I'd go easy--just
as easy as I could."
"Nonsense!" snorted Farwell. "That's what that old fool of a mick down
at the station told me. How the devil does the company happen to have
such an old fossil on the job?"
"Quilty's a left-over from construction days. He's been here ever since
steel was laid. They say he averted a bad smash once by sheer nerve or
pure Irish luck. Anyway, he has a sort of guarantee of his job for
life. Not a bad old boy when you get to know him."
"He ought to be fired, and a younger man put in his place," said
Farwell. "He talks too much. Good Lord! He's like an endless record!"
"Pshaw! What do you care?" said Sleeman. "He's better than a talking
machine in this place. Well, come over to the hotel, and afterward I'll
run you out to the camp."