Bright sunlight flooded Alberta. The miraculous
harvest was over, and the buzz of the thousand
threshing machines, day and night, sounded like
music in the ears of the ranchers. The greatest bumper
crop in the history of the continent had made Alberta
famous throughout the grain world.
Settlers were pouring in from across the line. Land
values soared to preposterous heights; and wherever
there were municipalities of open range and unbroken
land, the territory was being staked and fenced.
On the heels of the famous crop came first the fatal
oil and then the fatal city real estate boom, which
later was to act as a boomerang to the land, since it
brought in the wildcat speculator, the get-rich-quick
folk, the gold-brick seller and the train of clever
swindlers that spring up from nowhere when a boom
is on. The great province was to be exploited by these
parasites. The boom swelled to fabulous proportions
almost overnight. The streets of Calgary were
thronged, train loads poured into the country; hysterical,
half-crazed gamblers and "suckers" made or
lost fortunes overnight; businesses of all kinds were
started on "a shoe-string"; the wildest stories of oil
flowing like water raced about the land. Oil indeed
there was, as also coal in unlimited quantities, for the
mineral wealth of the province had barely been
scratched, but the boom was in full swing before the
tests had been properly made, with the result that conservative
people began to regard it askance, and almost
as quickly as it had started, like an inflated bubble the
oil boom burst. This brought undeserved desertion
and wholesale ruin upon the country. Alberta had
been made the "goat" of a flock of get-rich-folk from
across the line, intent on making fortunes which then
existed only upon paper.
The one solid and substantial asset that all the deflated
booms could not affect, was the agricultural
wealth of the province, real and potential. During this
period, Bull Langdon's power and wealth swelled to
enormous proportions. Before the year was out, he
had become a multimillionaire. His cattle ranged over
those "thousand hills"; his hundreds of granaries were
overflowing with the grain of that bumper crop, grain
that he held to sell as soon as the market was right;
his grip was upon the stockyards and packing house
industry and the stock market was under his control.
No one questioned his right to be called the Cattle King
of Canada.
Bloated with affluence and power, illiterate and uncouth
as ever, his vanity was boundless. It flattered
him to be known as the richest and most powerful man
in the Province; to have his cattle, his stock, his immense
ranches pointed out; to see his brand far-flung
over the cattle country, and encroaching into the western
States; his name stamped upon the beef that topped
the market, not merely in the east but in the west,
even into the Chicago stockyards--there to be exhibited,
and wondered at--grass fed steers, competing
with and surpassing the cornfeds of the U.S.A.
Above all his possessions he placed his magnificent
purebred Hereford bulls, a race whose stamp was upon
the whole cattle country, for scarcely a farmer or
rancher in the country, but aspired to have his herd
headed by a Bar Q bull. He had spared neither expense
nor labor upon the breeding of these perfect animals,
whose sires had come from the most famous herds in
England and the States, and whose mothers were pure
Canadian stock.
He coveted now the world championship for his
latest product, a two-year-old Hereford bull, Prince
Perfection Bar Q the Fourth. The Prince, as he was
known throughout the purebred world, was of royal
ancestry, and already, as a mere calf, his career at the
cattle fairs in Canada had brought him under the eyes
of the experts and cattle specialists. He was the son
of that Princess Perfection Bar Q the Third, who had
brought the lordly price when exhibited by Bull Langdon
in Chicago of $40,000. His sire was of foreign
birth, shipped to Canada by a member of the royal family,
who, infatuated with the "cattle game," had acquired
a ranch in Canada, and declared it to be the
sport of kings.
Annually there was a showing of the Bar Q bulls, and
from far and near ranchers and farmers trekked from
all over Canada and the States to see the latest products
of the famous herd. This year was exceptional,
inasmuch, as the two-year-old Prince was to be examined
and shown before a jury of experts, who would
pronounce upon his chances of winning the coveted
championship in the United States.
His curly hide brushed and smoothed, oiled and
trimmed; his hoofs all but manicured; his face washed
with soft oiled cloths; his eyes and nostrils wiped with
boracic acid solution; fed on the choicest of green feed
and chop, a golden ring in his nose, through which a
golden chain was passed, the petted brute was led out
to gladden the eyes of stock enthusiasts, experts, agriculturists,
scientific cattle students, and others connected
with the purebred game, who had come literally
from the four corners of the earth, with a passion
similar to that of the scientist or the collector, discovering
some coveted rare specimen. They crowded
about this perfect product of the Hereford race, and
looked the massive brute over with the eyes of connoisseurs.
In that crowd of men about the roped-in space,
around which Cyril Stanley led the bull by the chain,
university men, men of title, an English Prince and an
ex-president of the U.S.A., millionaire cattlemen and
sportsmen, the overall cattlemen, ranchers, farmers,
stock enthusiasts, stockyard and packing-house men,
to say nothing of the humble homesteaders and derelicts,
the numerous "remittancemen" from the old country,
and speculators from cattle centers in Canada and
the States. A mixed "bunch," socially as wide apart
as the poles, but in that cattle shed as close as brothers.
They rubbed elbows, swapped expensive cigars
for grimy chews, held their sides at each other's jokes,
and joshed and roared across to each other. They
were kindred spirits, and cattle was the bond between
them.
Glowering and grinning at each other, as at a prize
fight, applauding, groaning out oaths of enthusiasm,
strange explosive utterances, they were a motley company.
Professor Morton Calhoun made a circle of
his hands, and squinted through it with one screwed-up
eye, the attitude of an artist before a masterpiece, and
after a long scrutiny, shook his head and groaned with
joy.
Through this group of men moved Bull Langdon, in
high good humor, dominant and arrogant, intimate
with everyone, yet close to no one. When the big
shed was full, and the circle about the ropes entirely
surrounded his exhibit, Bull Langdon nonchalantly
stepped into the ring, where the Prince followed Cyril
Stanley tamely about. Cyril had a curiously hypnotic
influence over the animal, and could even make him
submit to having his head caressed and his nose patted.
On either horn two bright ribbons had been coyly
twisted and tied, and these gave the animal a peculiarly
festive look. As Bull Langdon stepped into the ring,
a murmur of admiring and respectful applause broke
forth. He approached the Prince from the left side,
and reaching out a careless hand pulled the ribbon
from one of the horns.
"We ain't raisin' no dolls!" said the cowman. "This
is a Bull!" and he reached for the other horn.
"Careful, boss!" warned Cyril. "He's not used to
all this excitement, and I got my hands full keeping
him calm."
"Who's talking?" growled the cattleman, spitting
with amusement. "Are you trying to teach Bull Langdon
the cattle game, you young whelp? I knowed it
before the day you was born."
The young bull's head had suddenly uplifted. He
sniffed the air, his neck bristling. Slowly, growing
in depth and power, there burst from his throat a
mighty roar that shook the tent, and drove the color
from the faces about that ring, as with an almost concerted
movement there was a backing from the lines
and an exodus from the tent. Bull Langdon, as swiftly
as a cat, had backed to the lines and was over them.
Cyril was alone in the inclosure with the roaring bull.
Half talking, half singing, not for a moment did his
hand relax its grip upon the chain. Slowly the animal's
head turned in his direction and again dropped
submissively. There was a breath of relief about the
lines, and Cyril led the bull back to his stall, fastening
him securely to his post by the ring in his nose.
Bull Langdon was swearing foully, but his fury
against Cyril and the Prince subsided at the approach
of Professor Calhoun, the greatest authority on pure
bred cattle in the world.
"Sir," said the little man, glaring at Bull Langdon
through double-lensed glasses, scrutinizing the cattleman
with the scientific air with which he examined
cattle, "I will not hesitate to predict that your animal's
progress throughout the United States--I will
go farther and say, throughout the world--will be one
of unbroken triumph. It has been my pleasure to look
upon the most perfect Hereford specimen in the world.
I congratulate you, sir."
Bull Langdon grunted, rose on the balls of his feet,
chewed on the plug in his cheek, spat, and, his chest
swelling, roared across at one of the Bar Q "hands."
"Take the gentleman--take all of the gentlemen--"
he added, with a sweeping gesture of his arm toward
the crowd, "to the booze tent. The treat's on Bull
Langdon. Fill up, gentlemen, on the Bar Q."
Meanwhile, satiated with gloating over his great
treasure, he bethought of another possession and upon
which at this stage he set if possible an even greater
value. True, he reckoned Nettie as "scrub" stock,
while the Prince was of lordly lineage. On the auction
block, the prince might bring a price that was worth
a king's ransom; yet as he thought of the big, white-skinned,
blue-eyed girl, the cowman knew that he would
not give her up for all the champions in the cattle
world. He owned the Prince; but though he had held
the girl in his arms, he knew in his heart of hearts that
she had never been his. That was what fretted and
tormented him--the thought that his brand upon Nettie
could never be permanent.
It was a boast of the cowman that what he wanted
he took, and what he took, he held. He had wanted
Nettie Day. He had taken her by mad force, as a barbarian
might have fallen upon a Christian slave, yet
he knew, with a sense of smoldering hatred and fury
that a single hair upon the head of the young Bar Q
hand was more to her than the Bull and all his possessions.
He was torn with a desire to return to Bar Q,
and again take forcible possession of the girl; but the
prize herd was now almost ready for the tour. It would
be disastrous, ruinous to his reputation and career, if,
at this psychological moment, anything should interfere
with the departure of the herd, and there was no
man in the outfit who could be trusted to take the place
of Bull Langdon himself. Well, it would be the matter
of a month or two only, and he would be back.
He found himself at the Prince's stall, glowering
down upon the back of the kneeling Cyril, who was
brushing down his charge's legs with an oiled brush.
Presently Cyril looked up, and seeing his employer, he
arose. The Bull cleared his throat noisily.
"Well, how about it, bo? You goin' along with
Prince to the States?"
Cyril waited in his slow way, before replying, and
as he hesitated, the Bull threw in savagely:
"Bonus of $500 to the 'hand' that takes special
charge of the Prince and another $10 raise to his
wages."
$500! It was a mighty sum of money, and the young
man felt his heart thump at the thought of what it
would buy for Nettie.
"When would you want me to leave?"
"Two weeks."
"When'd we be back?"
"Two months. I'll go along as far as St. Louis;
leave for a spell, and join you at Chicago, comin' back
with the outfit."
"I'd want a week off."
"What for?"
"I got a bit of fencing to finish on my homestead,
and I got to ride over to Bar Q."
"What you want at Bar Q?"
Cyril's straight glance met his.
"My girl's there."
"Who'd you mean?"
"Nettie Day. We're planning to get married this
winter."
The savage in Bull Langdon was barely held in check.
He could scarcely control the impulse to throttle the
life out of this cool-eyed youth, who dared to claim
for his own what was the Bull's.
"You're countin' your chickens before they're
hatched, ain't you?" he snarled. "Mebbe the gell's
stuck on someone else."
"Not on your life she's not," said Cyril with calm
conviction. "She and me are promised."
"Beat it, then," roared the Bull, "and the sooner
you're back, the sooner we'll start. I'll hold the job
for you for two weeks--not a day longer."
"You can count on me," said Cyril. "I'll be on the
job."