Clyde lay stretched at length in sweet, odorous hay. There was no
reason why she should not have taken the hammock in the shade of the
veranda that morning, save that she wanted to be alone. Therefore she
had taken a book and wandered forth. Behind the corrals she had come
upon a haystack, cut halfway down and halfway across, and on impulse
she had climbed up a short ladder and lain down. Her hands clasped
behind her head, her book forgotten, she stared up into the blue sky,
and dreamed daydreams. And then she went to sleep.
She was aroused by the sound of hammering. Peeping over the edge of the
stack, she recognized Tom McHale. McHale was putting a strand of wire
around the stack, and as she looked he began to sing a ballad of the
old frontier. Clyde had never heard "Sam Bass," and she listened to
McHale's damaged tenor.
"Sam was born in Indianner, it was his native home,
And at the age of seventeen young Sam began to roam;
And first he went to Texas, a cowboy for to be--
He robs the stage at----"
He stopped abruptly, and Clyde saw two mounted men approaching. They
bore down on McHale, who lifted his coat from a rail, and put it on. To
Clyde's amazement the action revealed a worn leather holster strapped
to the inner side of the garment, and from it protruded the ivory butt
of a six-shooter. McHale was apparently unarmed; in reality a weapon
lay within instant reach of his hand.
The two horsemen were roughly dressed. Each wore a gun openly at his
belt. One was large, sandy-haired, gray-eyed. The other was dark,
quick, restless, shooting odd, darting glances from a pair of sinister
black eyes.
"Is your name Dunne?" asked the first roughly.
"Dunne?" queried McHale, as if the name were strange to him. "Did you
say Dunne, or Doane?"
"I said Dunne."
"Oh," McHale responded. "Lemme think. No, I guess not. I never used
that name that I remember of. No, partner, my name ain't Dunne."
"We want Dunne. Where'll we find him?"
"Why, now," said McHale, "that's a right hard question. You might find
him one place, and then again you mightn't. I reckon I wouldn't be
misleading you none if I was to tell you you'd find him wherever he's
at."
"You workin' for him?" the dark man put in quickly.
"I was, a minute ago. Now I got a job with an inquiry office. Anything
else I can tell you?"
"No," said the dark man. "But you can tell Dunne that up to a minute
ago he had a ---- ---- fool workin' for him!"
Dead silence while a watch could tick off ten seconds. Clyde scarcely
breathed. At different times in her life she had heard noisy quarrels
in city streets, quarrels big with oath and threat. This was different.
She experienced a sensation as though, even in the bright sunshine
beneath the blue, unflecked summer sky where all was instinct with
growth and health and life, she were watching a deathbed.
The two strangers sat motionless, their eyes on McHale, their right
hands resting quietly by their waists. McHale stood equally still,
facing them, his eyes narrowed down to slits, his left hand holding the
lapel of his coat, his right hand, a half-smoked cigarette between the
first and second fingers, on a level with his chin. He expelled a thin
stream of smoke from his lungs, and spoke:
"I reckon you can tell him yourself. Here he come now."
The eyes of the first man never shifted. The other instantly looked
over his shoulder. McHale laughed.
"You're an old-timer," he said to the gray-eyed man; "but him"--he
jerked a contemptuous thumb at the second--"it's a wonder to me he ever
growed up. Don't you do it no more, friend. Don't you never take your
eyes off a man you've called a ---- ---- fool, or maybe the next thing
they beholds is the Promised Land!"
But his words had not been intended as a ruse. Casey was riding over on
his little gray mare to see who the strangers were, and what they
wanted.
"This man tells me you're Dunne," said the gray-eyed man.
"That's correct," Casey admitted.
"My name is Dade; his name is Cross." He indicated his companion by a
sidewise nod. "We've bought land from this here irrigation outfit. So
have half a dozen other men, friends of ours. Now we can't get water."
"Well?"
"Well, the company puts it up that some of you fellows is to blame.
You've cut the ditches so they won't carry. We've come to tell you that
this has got to stop."
"That's kind of you, anyway," Casey observed quietly. He and Dade eyed
each other appraisingly.
"What I want to make plumb clear," said the latter, "is that this don't
go no more. It's no good. You'll leave the ditches alone, or else----"
"Or else?" Casey suggested.
"Or else we'll make you," said Dade grimly. "We want water, and we'll
have it."
"I wonder," said Casey, "if you are trying to hang a nice little bluff
on me, Mr. Dade? Suppose, for instance, you have no land, and don't
need any water."
"I can show you my deed."
"That's quite possible. All right, Mr. Dade. Is there anything more you
want to say?"
"I reckon that's all," said Dade. "If you'll say that the ditches will
be let alone there'll be no trouble; if not, there will be."
"What kind of trouble, Mr. Dade?"
"You'll see when it comes."
"Very well," said Casey. "Now, listen to me, Mr. Dade. You and your
friend there and your whole outfit can go plumb. Get that? Every ranch
here has water, and we're going to keep it. How we keep it is our own
business. If you've bought land you may look to the company for water,
and not to us. If you haven't bought land--if you're hired to come here
to start something--why, let it start!"
He and Dade looked straight into each other's eyes in the silence that
followed. Cross made a sudden movement.
"Be careful, partner!" McHale warned him in hard tones.
Once more Clyde, an involuntary listener, felt the presence of a
crisis, the chill of fate impending. But, as before, it passed.
"You're barking up the wrong tree," said Dade. "Nothing starts--now.
Better remember what I told you. Come on, Sam, we'll get going."
Clyde heard the trample of hoofs dying in the distance, and then
McHale's voice:
"You run the bluff, but you took an awful chance. That there Cross come
mighty close to making a break."
"Nervous kind?"
"Yep. He's apt to be too blamed soon. T'other one, Dade, is cold-drawn.
I judge he's bad. Ever hear of him?"
"No."
"Nor me," said McHale; "but he has the earmarks."
Casey's reply was lost as they turned away. Clyde waited until they
were out of sight, and then descended. The morning adventure had given
her food for thought. Until then she had been deceived by the smooth
current of life at Chakchak. It had seemed an idyllic, carefree
existence. Although she had known of the trouble, it had seemed far in
the background; it was a skeleton which had not obtruded itself. Now,
by accident, she had surprised it stalking abroad in the glare of day.
That afternoon she and Casey rode together. He was in his usual
spirits, laughing, joking, full of whimsical good humour. But back of
it she thought she detected a preoccupation. Occasionally he would be
silent and his eyes would narrow as if he were working out some
problem.
Far up beneath the shoulder of a butte a little spring of delicious
water bubbled from the gravelly soil, trickled a few hundred yards, and
disappeared. It was hidden by willow and cottonwood, draped with
greenery, an oasis. Here they dismounted, drank the sweet spring water,
watered the horses, and rested. Clyde sat down, leaning against a
convenient tree. Casey stretched himself against another, his hands
clasped behind his head, a long, thin cigar clenched between his teeth.
Through the fragrant smoke he eyed his companion in lazy content,
noting how the mottled sunlight, filtering through the leaves, touched
her glorious hair to living, coppery gold.
"Did you ever have your picture painted?" he asked suddenly.
"Why, no," she replied. "Whatever made you think of that?"
"Your hair and the sunlight on it. If I were a painter I should like to
paint you now--and keep the picture."
"The first compliment you have ever paid me," she laughed, pleased
nevertheless. "I shall remember it."
"And that's a compliment to me," he responded. "Funny what we recollect
and what we don't. There doesn't seem to be any rule for it. But I
think I shall always remember just how you look at this moment."
"That's very nice."
"I wonder if I may ask you something without offending you?"
"I don't think you would ask anything that should offend me."
"Thanks! It's this: I want to make things pleasant for you all. I've
been wondering in my own mind why you came here. You won't
misunderstand me. But why?"
"Have you forgotten your invitation?"
"No. But its acceptance was an unexpected piece of luck. There isn't
much here to amuse you. What's the real reason?"
She looked full at him, and then dropped her eyes; her fingers plucked
blades of grass and cast them aside.
"I don't think I know the answer," she replied at last. "For one thing,
I thought I might help you--if you'd let me."
"Help me! How?"
"With money. You and the others."
"Good Lord!" he ejaculated. "Whatever put that in your head?"
"The only letter you ever wrote me. I could read between the lines.
Afterward Mr. Wade told me more. But he wouldn't take what I offered."
"I should say not--if you offered money. He was right."
"Do you mean that you wouldn't let me help you if you needed money?"
"Certainly I wouldn't."
"Because I'm a woman, I suppose."
"Partly. But I wouldn't let any one throw money away on what is apt to
be a losing game."
"You think it that?"
"Size it up for yourself. You talked with Wade. Didn't he tell you so?"
"Practically, yes."
"Then you see! It wouldn't do at all."
"But it's my money. I can afford to lose it. I'll not have a pleasure
or a luxury the less. And this is my pleasure. Would you refuse me this
one thing? You lent _me_ money!"
"Ten dollars--pshaw! This is different. I'm more grateful than I can
tell you. But there's no necessity--just yet, anyway."
"Then I won't consider it a definite refusal. That was one reason why I
came. And then I wanted to see your country. I wanted something new. I
can't explain it very well. I had to come; something made me."
She flushed, but the eyes that met his inquiring gaze were entirely
steady.
"Something made me. If the Wades had not been coming I should have come
alone. I'm frank with you, you see."
"Yes, I understand the feeling," Casey said. "I have had it myself.
I've had to get out of old surroundings sometimes. And I've always
gone. Sometimes it has turned out well; sometimes not."
"We shall see how this turns out," she said, with a nod and a little
laugh. "I've a feeling that I shall bring you luck."
"I believe you will," he agreed. "We'll say so, anyway. Just now I
wouldn't trade places with any man on earth."
[Illustration: "JUST NOW I WOULDN'T TRADE PLACES WITH ANY MAN ON
EARTH"]
She laughed in pure pleasure, bending toward him. "I appropriate that
to myself. Don't dare to explain it. Do you come here often?"
"Not very often. That maze of coulée and butte you see is a good cattle
range. I come this way looking for strays. The last time I was here
Sheila McCrae was with me."
Suddenly, for Clyde, the sunlight lost its golden charm. In an altered
tone she said:
"Indeed!" And she added deliberately: "I don't think I ever met a nicer
girl than Miss McCrae."
"No nicer anywhere," he agreed heartily. "Well, perhaps we'd better be
moving. We have a long ride yet."
Their way led by devious cattle trails along the coulées, over ridges,
into other coulées. Clyde lost all idea of direction, but her companion
was never at a loss, and finally they emerged upon a broad,
well-travelled trail. Then Clyde, after much inward debate, told Casey
of her presence that morning at the interview with Dade and Cross.
"Well, they're quite a pair," said Casey. "They came to run some sort
of a bluff, but concluded not to push it to a show-down. They'll make
trouble for us, I suppose. They're simply hired men, and that's their
job."
"What kind of trouble?"
"I wish I knew," he replied, shaking his head.
"Is it all worth while?" she asked. "I haven't asked a question about
the blown-up dam and the cut ditches. I'm not going to. But where will
it end? You admit that there may be violence--even bloodshed. Why not
avoid it?"
"How?"
"By letting the courts settle it."
"If we could have our water till then, that's what we'd do. As it
is--well, I'm afraid we can't afford to."
"I've already offered----"
"I know, I know," he interrupted; "but that's out of the question."
That evening dragged. There were long silences. Nobody seemed inclined
to talk. Wade went to sleep in his chair, his cigar dropping from his
relaxing fingers. He grumbled when his wife woke him.
"I'm dead sleepy. I'm going to bed. I'm too sleepy to care whether it's
polite or not; I'm all in."
"So am I," said Kitty, yawning frankly. "I shall follow my lord and
master."
"And I my amiable chaperon," said Clyde.
"I'm afraid all I have to follow is an example," said Casey. He came
close to her in the moonlight. "Perhaps I seemed ungrateful this
afternoon. I didn't mean to be. I can't tell you how much I appreciated
your offer, your generosity; none the less because I can't possibly
accept it."
"It is nothing," she said. "It is not even generosity. Real generosity
must cost something in renunciation."
"No," he replied; "the cost has little to do with it. It is the spirit
of the offer that counts. Don't belittle it."
"It cost me something to make the offer," she said impulsively. "The
money would have been the least part of it."
"I don't think I understand."
"I'm glad you don't; and I can't explain now. Some day, perhaps. And
now--good night."
He took her hand and looked down into her eyes. He could feel the hand
tremble slightly, but the eyes were steady. Darkened by the moonlight
they seemed unfathomable pools, deep, mysterious, holding something
which he could almost but not quite discern. In the pale light her face
lost colour. It was idealized, purified, the face of a dream. Her
marvellous crown of hair shone strand by strand as of twisted gold; it
shimmered with halolike glory. Her slightly parted lips, vivid against
the white of the face, seemed to invite him.
He bent forward, and plucked himself angrily back from the temptation.
She released her hand.
"Good night," she said softly.
"Good night," he responded, hesitated, and turned away to his own
quarters.
But as Clyde sought her room she seemed to walk on air. She trembled in
every fibre of her strong, young body, but her blood sang in her veins.
The woman within her called aloud triumphantly. It was long before she
slept, and when she did so her slumber was a procession of dreams.
She awoke somewhere in the night, with a strange sound in her ears, a
detonation distant but thunderous. She rose, went to the window, and
peered out.
As she stood, she commanded a view of Casey Dunne's quarters. The door
opened, and two men emerged, running for the stables. It seemed not a
minute till two horses were led out, ready saddled. The two men went up
instantly. They tore past her window in a flurry of hoofs. She
recognized Casey Dunne and McHale. Neither was completely dressed. But
around the waist of each was a holster-weighted belt, and across each
saddle was slanted a rifle. Because of these warlike manifestations
Clyde slept no more that night.