During the next twelve hours there was much riding from ranch to ranch.
Of all the small dams constructed and maintained by the ranchers for
irrigation purposes but one remained; and that one was Donald McCrae's.
McCrae himself considered this an invidious distinction. He would have
preferred to suffer with his neighbours. He did not know why his
structure had been spared, and he lent men and teams to others,
labouring hard himself in the task of rebuilding.
The temper of the ranchers was at the breaking point. Naturally the
blame fell on Farwell; he was the villain of the piece. He had expected
unpopularity, but he had no idea of the depth of it. The black looks he
met did not disturb him in the least; nor, to do him justice, would he
have been seriously alarmed if he had known that more than one man was
quite ready to pick a deadly quarrel with him. For some time he had not
seen Sheila McCrae, but he found himself thinking of her constantly.
And so, one evening he rode over to Talapus.
Somewhat to his relief, neither McCrae nor Sandy was visible. Mrs.
McCrae was calmly civil. Her manner gave no hint that he was unwelcome.
Sheila, she told him, had gone for a walk somewhere along the ditch.
"Oh," said Farwell, with elaborate carelessness, "then I think I'll
just stroll along and meet her."
At the end of ten minutes' walk he came upon the girl. She was sitting,
her chin propped on her hands, beside the stream where a little
bordering grove of willows had sprung up. The deep murmur of the
running water muffled his footsteps so that she neither saw nor heard
him till he was at her side.
"Good evening," he said.
She turned her head slowly, without start or exclamation.
"I did not expect to see you, Mr. Farwell."
"I thought I'd run over," he said awkwardly. "I intended to come
before."
She allowed a long minute of silence to lie between them. "And why have
you come now?" she asked.
"Why?" Farwell repeated the word. "Why? I wanted to see you. Why
shouldn't I come?"
"You ought to know why. It's one thing to do your work; but it's quite
another to blow up our dams!"
"Why do you think I did that?"
"Because I have ordinary common sense. I don't suppose you did it with
your own hand. But you've brought in a bunch of toughs and gunmen to
overawe us and do your dirty work. It will lead to serious trouble."
"I can handle trouble," said Farwell grimly. "Has anybody meddled with
your dam?"
"No."
"Then I don't see what you have to complain of. I don't admit anything.
But when you get indignant at blowing up dams you ought to remember
what happened to ours."
"Oh, as for that"--she shrugged her shoulders. "We had to have water.
Nobody blamed you before. But these dams that did you no harm--that's
different."
"But you _have_ water. Your own dam is all right," he insisted.
"Yes. And do you know what people are saying? They say that the reason
is because we have some sort of an understanding with you. They
say----" She stopped abruptly.
"What else do they say?"
"Other things. I've told you enough."
"What do you care?"
"Well, I do care. This is the only house you come to. Your visits must
end now."
"End?" Farwell echoed. "I guess not. Not unless you absolutely forbid
me to come. And then I don't know. I'd find it pretty hard."
"Nonsense!"
"I tell you I would," he protested. "You don't know."
"Bosh! We're not so fascinating as that."
Now Farwell was of the battle-axe type. He was accustomed to take what
he wanted, to smash through opposition. He looked at the girl facing
him in the fading light, and a great desire swelled within him. Her
words gave the needed spur to his courage, and he went to the point as
he would have gone in to quell a riot in a camp.
"'We,'" he said. "Who's talking of 'we'? I'm not. I come to see _you_.
You ought to know that. Of course you know it. I didn't think I'd ever
fall in love, but I _have_. You might as well know it now. I don't know
whether you think anything of me or not; it would be just my luck if
you didn't. Anyway, that's how I feel, and I'm not going to give up
seeing you just because some people have set a crazy yarn going."
The words boiled out of him like steam from a hot spring. He scowled at
her ferociously, his eyes hot and angry. It would have been difficult
to imagine a more unloverlike attitude. And yet she had no doubt of his
sincerity. She would have been less than woman if she had not suspected
his feelings before. But she had not expected this outbreak.
"I'm sorry you said that," she told him quietly. "It's quite
impossible. I can tell you now what I couldn't tell you before. People
say that I have promised to marry you in exchange for your promise that
we shall have water for the ranch."
"If you'll tell me the name of a man who utters an infernal lie like
that I'll wring his neck," he growled.
"I believe you would. But what good would it do? You can't fight
rumours and gossip in that way. That's the trouble with you--you depend
on force alone. Can't you see the position this puts us in--puts _me_
in? You can't come here any more."
"I don't see that at all," he objected. "I'll blow up your dam myself
if you think it will help, but as for not seeing you--why, it's out of
the question. I've got to see you. I'm going to see you. I can't help
it. I tell you I think of you all the time. Why, hang it, Sheila, I
think of you when I ought to be thinking of my work."
She would have laughed if she had not seen that he was in deadly
earnest. His work was a fetish, all-absorbing, demanding and receiving
the tribute of his entire attention and energy. That thought of a woman
should come between him and it was proof positive of devotion
extraordinary.
"You must not do that," she said, gently.
"But I can't help it," he reiterated. "It's new to me, this. I can't
concentrate on my work. I keep thinking of you. If that isn't being in
love, what in thunder is? I'm talking to you as straight as I'd talk to
a man. I believe I love you as much as any woman was ever loved. You
don't know much about me, but I'm considered a good man in my
profession. From a material point of view I'm all right."
"If I cared for you that would be the last thing I'd think of."
"Why can't you care for me?" he demanded. "I don't expect much. We'd
get along."
"No," she said decidedly. "No. It's impossible. We're comparatively
strangers. I think you're going to be a big man some day. I rather
admire you in some ways. But that is all."
"Well, anyway, I'm not going to quit," he announced doggedly. "I never
gave up anything yet. You talk as if it didn't matter! Maybe it doesn't
to you, but it does to me. You don't know how much I care. I can't tell
you, either. This talk isn't my line. Look here, though. About ten
years ago, down in the desert of the Southwest, my horse broke his leg,
and I was set afoot. I nearly died of thirst before I got out. All
those blistering days, while I stumbled along in that baking hell, I
kept thinking of a cool spring we had on our place when I was a boy. It
bubbled up in moss at the foot of a big cedar, and I used to lie flat
and drink till I couldn't hold any more. It was the sweetest water in
the world. All those days I tortured myself by thinking of it. I'd have
given my soul, if I have one, to satisfy my thirst at that spring. And
that's how I feel about you. I want your love as I wanted that water."
"I'm very sorry," she said. "It's out of the question."
"But why?" he demanded. "Give me a chance. I'm not a monster. Or do you
mean that you care for somebody else? Is that it? Do you care anything
for that Dunne? A fellow that's in love with another woman!"
Even in the dying light he could see the dark flush that surged over
cheek and brow. She rose to the full height of her lithe figure, facing
him.
"No, I don't!" she flamed. "But if I did what business would it be of
yours? Casey Dunne is my friend--a gentleman--which is more than you
seem to be, Mr. Farwell."
She took a step toward him in her indignation. Suddenly, with a sweep
of his arm, he clipped her to him, kissing her on forehead and cheek.
She struck him in the face with her clenched fist driven by muscles as
hard as an athlete's.
"You great brute!" she panted.
With the blow and the words, Farwell's moment of madness passed. He
held her from him at arm's length.
"A brute!" he said. "You're right. I didn't know it before. Now, I do.
How can I put myself right with you?"
"Let me go!" she cried.
As he released her she heard the quick pad of running feet. Out of the
dusk behind her bounded young Sandy McCrae. He came like a young wolf
to its first kill, his lips lifted in a snarl. In his right hand lay a
long-barrelled, black Colt's.
"Sheila!" he cried. "What's the matter? Who's this? What in--ah!"
The gun leaped up. Instinctively she threw out her hand, striking it as
he pulled the trigger. A thin stream of flame blazed almost into
Farwell's face, and the sharp report split the evening silence into
fragments. Something like a questing finger of death ran through his
hair, and his hat twitched from his head, to flutter down softly ten
feet away. But he was unhurt.
Sheila locked both arms around her brother's, dragging it down.
"No, no, no!" she cried. "I tell you no, Sandy! Don't shoot again. It's
a mistake."
He wrenched furiously to free his hand. "Mistake!" he shouted. "He was
holding you! I saw him. I heard you. Let go. I'll blow his heart out!"
But she clung to his arm. "It's a mistake, Sandy, I tell you! Can't you
understand me? Don't use that gun. I won't let you. Give it to me!"
He ceased his attempts to free his arm. "All right, Sheila. I won't
shoot--this time. You, Farwell, what have you got to say for yourself?"
"Mighty little," Farwell replied. "I asked your sister to marry me, and
she refused. I kissed her against her will. That's all--and plenty. If
you want my opinion, I think I ought to be shot."
Sandy glared at him, taken aback by this frank admission.
"If she hadn't jolted my hand you sure would have been," he said
grimly. "You're mighty lucky to be alive right now. After this if I see
you----"
"Shut up, Sandy!" Sheila interrupted authoritatively, with sisterly
directness. "I'm quite able to look after my own affairs. Mr. Farwell
is sorry. You be white enough to let it go that way."
"It's up to you, if you want it," Sandy replied. "If you can stand for
a thing like that once I can. But not twice."
"There won't be any twice. Shall we go to the house, Mr. Farwell?"
Farwell, amazed, fell into step with her. He had expected to be
overwhelmed with reproaches, to face a storm of feminine anger. Still,
he could not think that she was palliating his offence; and he was
quite aware that she had saved his life. Young McCrae, in offended
dignity, stalked in front.
"I want you to know," said Farwell, "that I'm utterly ashamed of
myself. To prove it I'm going to do the best I can. I'm going to wire
in my resignation, and I'm going away."
"Don't."
"What?" he exclaimed incredulously.
"Don't. You are sorry, and that's the main thing. We won't mention it
again. And neither will Sandy. But for a while you must not come here."
"I'll do anything," he said. "I think you are the best girl on earth."
Sheila did not reply; but she did not reprove him.
Mrs. McCrae, looking somewhat anxious, met them at the house.
"I heard a shot," she said. "Was it you, Sandy?"
"Yes," her son replied.
"What did you shoot at?"
The young man glanced at Farwell from the corner of his eye.
"A skunk," he replied. "I missed him."
Sheila bit her lip angrily. Farwell took his medicine in silence.