Casey Dunne crossed from the Coldstream Supply Company's store--which
was also the post office--to Bob Shiller's hotel. His pockets bulged
with mail, for it was his first visit to town since the destruction of
the dam a week before, and there was an accumulation of letters,
newspapers, and periodicals. Ever since then he had been irrigating,
throwing upon his thirsty fields every drop of water he could get.
As he came upon the veranda, he saw Shiller in conversation with a
stranger.
"Oh, Casey," said Shiller, "I want you to shake hands with Mr. Glass.
Mr. Glass--Mr. Dunne. Mr. Glass," the genial Bob went on, "has some
notion of locating here if he can get a place to suit him. He likes the
land, and he likes the climate; but the recent--the events--er--the way
things shape at present has a _leetle_ undecided him. Anything Mr.
Dunne tells you, Mr. Glass, will be straight. He has land to burn, and
one of our best ranches. Yes. I'll just leave you to talk it over
together." And so saying, he executed a masterly retreat.
Glass was a mild, colourless, middle-aged man, attired in worn
hand-me-down garments. His blue eyes, clear and direct enough, seemed
to hold a little of the pathetic apprehension and appeal of a lost
puppy. He hesitated when he spoke, repeatedly qualifying his
statements. His was the awkwardness of the man who, having spent his
life in familiar surroundings in some small community, suddenly finds
himself in new places among strangers. And, lacking adaptability, is
constrained and ill at ease.
"You see, Mr. Dunne, it's this way with me," he began. And, appearing
to remember something suddenly, he asked: "Hadn't we better have a
drink?"
"Not unless you need it in your business," said Casey. "Sit down and
smoke a cigar with me and tell me your trouble."
"Well, I'd just as soon," said Glass, plainly relieved. "I don't drink
much myself. My wife don't like it. It's a bad example for the
children. But I thought that out here, maybe from what I'd heard----"
"Current Western fiction!" Casey laughed. "No, we don't drink every
time we shake hands. Couldn't stand it. Well, what can I do for you?"
And thereupon Mr. Glass unbosomed himself ramblingly, with much detail,
which included a sketch of his life and family history. Casey saw that
Shiller had unloaded a bore on him.
Glass, it appeared, hailed from Maine, from the vicinity of one of the
"obscots" or "coggins." He had followed various callings--carpenter,
market gardener, and grocer--with indifferent success; but he had
succeeded in accumulating a few thousand dollars. His eldest girl was
not well. Consumption ran in her mother's family. The doctor had
ordered a dryer climate, a higher altitude. For some years Glass had
been thinking of migrating westward; but he had stuck in the narrow
groove, lacking the initiative to pull up stakes and see for himself
the land in which others had prospered. This sickness had decided
him--and here he was.
He liked the climate, which he was sure would be just the thing for his
daughter; and he liked the land. But here was the point--and it was the
point which was worrying Sleeman grayheaded. There was trouble between
the ranchers and the land company. Not that it was for him to say who
was right or wrong. But there _was_ trouble. Now, he was a man of small
means, and he was forced to put all his eggs in one basket. Which was
to say, that if he bought land, and subsequently was unable to get
water for it, he would be ruined. Also he had heard that the ranchers
were unfriendly to those who bought land from the company.
"And I'm a man that has kept out of trouble all my life, Mr. Dunne," he
concluded plaintively. "I'm on good terms with everybody at home, and I
wouldn't want, right at the start-off, as you might say, to have
anybody think I was trying to take water away from him. And yet I like
the country. I thought maybe you could advise me what to do. It seems
like a lot of gall asking you, too; you having land for sale and me
thinking of buying the company's. But, then, I saw their advertising.
It was only right I should go to them, wasn't it?"
"Of course," said Casey. "I haven't any land for sale now. I'm holding
what I have. But as to advising you, it's a difficult thing. Here's the
situation: The amount of the total water supply is limited. The railway
claims the right to take it all, if it likes. We claim enough to
irrigate our properties. Right there we lock horns. There is a lawsuit
just starting; but the Lord only knows which way it will be settled, or
when. And now you know as much about it as I do."
"It don't look good," said Glass, shaking his head. "No, sir, it don't
look good to me. And here's another thing. They tell me that there was
trouble out here a ways the other night. I mean with the company's dam.
Of course, I don't know anything about it myself; it's just what I've
heard. I hope you don't mind me speakin' of it."
"Not in the least. Well, what about it, Mr. Glass?"
"It was a turrible risky thing to do--to blow up a dam," said Glass.
"It'd be against the law, wouldn't it? Of course, I don't say it was.
It might not be. I don't claim to know, and likely whoever done it had
reasons. All the same, I wouldn't choose to be mixed up in doin's like
that."
"Good thing to keep out of," Casey agreed.
"I wouldn't want anything of mine to be blown up."
"But who would blow up anything of yours?"
"I don't say anybody'd do it, of course," Glass protested hastily.
"Only, you see, men that'd blow up a dam are--I mean, if I bought land
off of the company and started in to use water and farm, they might
blame me. I wouldn't want to get my neighbours down on me, Mr. Dunne."
"Does that mean you think that some of your prospective neighbours blew
up the dam?"
"No, no," Glass disclaimed, in a flurry. "I don't know who did it, of
course. I'm not saying anybody did. Only somebody must of. That's just
common sense. You'll admit that yourself."
"Why, yes, that's a pretty safe conclusion," Casey agreed. "I don't
think you need worry about that, though. The only point is whether the
company will be able to keep an agreement to supply you with water. I
can't tell you whether they will or not. If you buy you take a chance.
If you bought from me, you'd take almost the same chance."
"I don't know what to do," said Glass, picking nervously at his
white-metal watch chain. "It's hard to tell--there's so many things to
be considered. I can't afford to lose money. This irrigation's new to
me. I never saw it working. Would you mind if I came out to your farm
and sort of looked around? I could learn a lot that way. Maybe if you
had time, you could explain what I didn't understand? But, then, I
wouldn't want to trouble you."
But Casey Dunne was already tired of Glass, of his timidity, his
indecision, his self-effacement, his continual air of apology for
existence.
"Come any time," he said. "Glad to see you. Sorry I can't do any more
for you; but you'll have to decide for yourself."
"Yes, I know," Glass agreed dismally. "I'll look around first. I'm
obliged to you. You--you're sure you won't have a drink? No. Well, I
guess I'll go in and write a letter to my wife. I write to her twice a
week. I'll see you later, maybe."
Casey nodded, glad to be rid of him. He put his feet on the rail and
proceeded to go through his correspondence, which, though bulky, was
not especially important.
"The mails would be a whole lot lighter if it wasn't for fake oil and
cement propositions and special offers of the world's best authors," he
grumbled. "Promoters and publishers seem to consider the small post
office the natural breeding ground for suckers. Maybe they're right,
too. Hello! Here's something different."
It was a large, square, white envelope, perfectly plain, but of
aristocratic finish and thickness.
"Wedding--for the drinks!" growled Casey. "Not so different, after
all." He ripped it open ruthlessly with his thumb. "Here's where I get
set back a few dollars starting another domestic plant. Blamed if it's
any better than--hello!"
It was not a wedding announcement. Instead, it was a check. The amount
thereof was the surprising sum of eighty cents, exchange added; and the
signature, firm, square, clear-cut as lettering, was "_Clyde Burnaby_."
"Now what the devil?" Casey exclaimed, and jerked out the accompanying
letter.
It was merely a short, friendly note. Miss Burnaby inclosed her check
for one year's interest, at 8 per cent. on the loan from Mr. Dunne. She
referred to the Wades. Gave an item or two of unimportant personal
news. Hoped that his ranch was flourishing, and that he was well: and
was his very cordially.
In feminine fashion followed a postscript:
Kitty Wade tells me that you are having trouble with some company
which is taking water that you need for your ranch. I hope it isn't
serious trouble, though she hinted as much. Do you care to tell me
about it?
Casey Dunne sat for some minutes, the check and letter across his
knees, while he gazed unblinkingly through the hot sunshine. It was
some time since he had given Clyde Burnaby more than an occasional
thought; his immediate affairs had been too pressing. Now the vision of
her, as he had seen her last, rose before his eyes, and he found it a
pleasant recollection. He, whose life since childhood had been passed
in the outposts and beyond them, treasured the memories of the few
occasions when chance had permitted him to sit with his own kind, to
talk to them, to live as he would have lived had not fate forced him to
hoe his own row, and chosen for him a row in the new lands.
Of the women he had met in these rare incursions he could recall none
who pleased him as well as Clyde Burnaby. Her interest in his affairs
pleased him also. He recalled her as she had sat across the aisle in
the Pullman, her absolute frigidity to the advances of the would-be
Lothario, her haughty stare when she had suspected him of like intent,
her perfect composure during the holdup. Little things like that showed
the stuff a girl was made of. Nothing foolish or nervous or hysterical
about her. And then, subsequently, when he had met her on her own
ground, she had endeavoured to put him at his ease. Funny that, but he
appreciated it, nevertheless. And she could talk. She didn't giggle and
ask inane questions. Nor did she treat him as some sort of a natural
curiosity, who might be expected to do something shocking but
entertaining at any moment. She was sensible as--well--as sensible as
Sheila McCrae herself.
And that, Casey reflected, was by way of being a high compliment; for
Sheila had more sense than most men. He would take her opinion on any
subject as well worth consideration. She and Clyde Burnaby were two
young women very much above the ordinary run--in his opinion, at least.
Idly he wondered if chance would ever bring them together. Unlikely.
Because he had nothing else to do at the moment, he amused himself by a
process of transposition, of transmigration. He imagined Clyde Burnaby
in Sheila's place, riding Beaver Boy over the brown swells, along the
narrow trails and abrupt rises of the foothills, raising several
hundred chickens, helping with the housework, the mending--all the
daily feminine chores that fell to the lot of a rancher's womenkind.
Would she be as good a friend to him as Sheila had been? And he fancied
Sheila in her place--tailor-mades and evening gowns instead of riding
skirts, Paris instead of pony hats, with nothing in particular to do
but have a good time and spend money. Make good? Of course she would.
She was clean-cut, thoroughbred, smart as a whip. Perhaps she wasn't
quite as good-looking as Miss Burnaby; but, after all, that was largely
a matter of taste. She was a different style.
He looked at the check lying on his knee, and laughed at the idea of
interest on ten dollars. He had forgotten all about that conceit, but
she had not. He would frame the check--yes, that was what he would do.
In time there would be quite a bunch of them--that is, if she
remembered to send them. Well, anyway, he would have to acknowledge it,
and he might as well do it at once.
He went indoors and began to write. He had intended but a brief note,
but in construction it lengthened. With him letter writing was never an
effort. He wrote as easily as he talked, colloquially, without any
attempt at style or set phrase. Soon he found himself tersely
describing the water situation, forecasting the probabilities. As these
were not too cheering, he frowned and added an optimistic sentence or
two for general effect. He concluded with a hope that she would some
time honour his country with a visit, when his ranch and all it
contained--including its owner--would be entirely at her service.
On his way to post the letter he passed Glass, still struggling with
his own composition. That poor devil! A perfect type of incompetent. He
was too slow and timid for the West--too old to learn the lessons of
self-reliance and adaptability of a new land. However, that was his own
affair. If he would work he could make a living, and that was all that
he or those like him could make anywhere.
Dunne strolled down to the station to mail his letter in the box there;
and, as he turned the corner of the building, he came full upon Farwell
and another burly individual in conversation with Quilty, the station
agent.
"Tell them to start a tracer from the other end after those car
numbers," Farwell was commanding; "and you start one from here. I've
got to have them right away; work's at a standstill. Those cursed
fatheads in the freight department don't know enough to shovel ballast.
Get after them with a sharp stick."
"I'll do me best for ye," Quilty promised; "but freight on this line
comes whin ut comes."
"It will come when I want it, or somebody will lose a job," said
Farwell. "I'm not the ordinary consignee, and you can tell them that,
too."
"I'll do that same," said Quilty; "but I misdoubt if a cyar wheel turns
the faster for ut. I mind back in eighty-five--or maybe 'twas
eighty-three ut was--whin O'Brien--'Flapjack' O'Brien they called him
then, though he's climbed high enough since--well, whin O'Brien was a
plain, iveryday, thievin' conthractor, and a dom bad wan at that, he
had a nephew named Burke that married a Finnegan--or maybe ut was
Finucane--whose father pulled ould Sivinty-six, a wood-burnin'
monsthrosity iv an ingin' that be th' grace iv God an' a full sand box
might be good for a 3-per-cent grade anny dry day in summer but a
Friday. Annyways, as I started to tell ye, Danny Powers fired for
Finnegan or Finucane, whichever ut was, and him and this Burke----"
But Farwell cursed Powers and Burke. "You burn the wires getting those
cars for me!" he ordered. "What the devil do I care for all those
construction-days micks? You talk too much. Get busy!" With which he
turned and walked away with his companion.
"Pleasant gentleman, Corney!" Casey ventured.
The little station agent winked. "Th' black dog is on him sure enough,"
he observed. "Since his dam was blowed up, he has th' civil word for
nobody. Listen, now, Casey. Somebody will pay for that night's work."
"I don't quite get you, Corney."
"Oh, divil th' fear iv yez not gettin' me. I'm not speakin' now in me
official capacity; for praise God this dam is outside th' duties iv me
jurisdiction. I'm tellin' ye as a friend."
"I know, Corney; but tell me a little plainer."
"Plainer is ut? Yez are a man grown. Do yez think yez can crim'nally
an' wid conthributory vi'lence aforethought dynymite me employers'
property, an' no comeback at all? Have sinse!"
"Hold on," said Casey. "Go slow, Corney." But Mr. Quilty dismissed this
preliminary objection with a wave of his hand.
"Thim's figgers iv speech. I assume yez are innocent until yez are
caught. Faix, it's not me'd give th' hot tip iv a warnin' to a
crim'nal. But whisper now! Th' comp'ny is for siftin' this outrageous
outrage to th' bottom, an' then liftin' th' bottom to look under it.
Havin' put its hand to th' plow, it will l'ave no stone unturned to
probe th' mysthry. Ye seen that felly wid Farwell. He's th' railway
detective!"
"Meaning that they're out to round up somebody, eh?" said Casey. "All
right, Corney; let 'em go to it."
"In me official capacity," said Mr. Quilty, looking him sternly in the
eye, "I hope th' dirty blagyards is caught red-handed and soaked hard
for th' shameless and di'bolical atrocity they have perpetuated. For
such abandoned miscreants hangin' is too dom ladylike a punishment. I
want yez to understand me official sintimints in me official capacity
clearly. Yez may quote me exact words if ye feel so disposed."
"In your official capacity," said Casey, "your official sentiments do
you great credit."
"I'm glad ye think so," said Mr. Quilty; "for in me private capacity,
speakin' widout prejudice to me salary and as a true son iv dear, ould,
dirty Dublin to a friend, me private sintimints is these: Th' man that
invinted dynymite should have a set iv goold medals th' size iv a
compound's dhrivers. But if iver ye mintion me private sintimints to a
soul, I'll have yer life!"