THE HAND OF THE ENEMY
When in the bunkhouse the next morning Sanderson informed Barney Owen
of what had occurred during the night, the latter looked fixedly at
Sanderson.
"So she didn't take it hard," he said.
"Was you expectin' her to? For a brother that she hadn't seen in a
dozen years--an' which she knows in her secret heart wasn't any good?"
retorted Sanderson. "Shootin' your face off in Okar--or anywhere
else--don't go any more," added Sanderson. "She's pretendin',
publicly, that I'm her brother."
"I'm through talking," declared Owen.
"Or livin'. It's one or the other," warned Sanderson.
Sanderson took the seven thousand dollars that Mary gave him, rode to
Lazette--a town fifty miles eastward from the basin---and deposited the
money in a bank there. Then he rode eastward still farther and in
another town discovered a young engineer with a grievance against his
employers.
The result of this discovery was that on the following morning the
young engineer and Sanderson journeyed westward to the basin, arriving
at the Double A late in the afternoon of the next day.
On the edge of the plateau after the engineer and, Sanderson had spent
three or four days prowling through the basin and the gorge, the
engineer spoke convincingly:
"It's the easiest thing in the world! A big flume to the point I
showed you, a big main ditch and several laterals will do the trick.
I'm with you to the finish!"
Sanderson smiled at the engineer's glowing enthusiasm and told him of
the opposition he would meet in developing the project.
"There'll be a heap of schemin', an' mebbe shootin', Williams,"
Sanderson told him. "Puttin' through this deal won't be any
pussy-kitten affair."
"So much the better," laughed the engineer; "I'm fed up on soft snaps
and longing for action."
The engineer was thirty; big, square-shouldered, lithe, and capable.
He had a strong face and a level, steady eye.
"If you mean business, let's get acquainted," he said. "My front name
is Kent."
"Well, Kent, let's get busy," smiled Sanderson. "You go to work on
your estimates, order your material, hire your men. I'll see how bad
the people in the basin want the water they've been expectin'."
Kent Williams took up his quarters in the bunkhouse and immediately
began work, though before he could do much he rode to Okar, telegraphed
to Dry Bottom, the town which had been the scene of his previous
activity, and awaited the arrival of several capable-looking young men.
In company with the latter he returned to the Double A, and for many
days thereafter he and his men ran the transit and drove stakes in the
basin and along the gorge.
Sanderson spent much of his time talking with the cattlemen in the
basin. They were all eager to have water brought to their ranches, for
it would save them the long trip to the river, which was inaccessible
in many places, and they welcomed the new project.
0ne of the men--a newcomer to the basin--voiced the general sentiment.
"We want water, an' we don't give a damn who brings it here. First
come, first served!"
The big problem to Sanderson, however, was the question of money. He
was aware that a vast sum would be required. Nearly all the money he
possessed would be sunk in the preliminary work, and he knew that if
the work was to go on he must borrow money.
He couldn't get money in Okar, he knew that.
He rode to Lazette and talked with a banker there. The latter was
interested, but unwilling to lend.
"The Okar Basin," he said. "Yes, I've heard about it. Great prospects
there. But I've been told that Silverthorn and Maison are going to put
it through, and until I hear from them, I shouldn't like to interfere."
"That gang won't touch the Double A water!" declared Sanderson. "I'll
see the basin scorched to a cinder before I'll let them in on the deal!"
The banker smiled. "You are entitled to the water, of course; and I
admire your grit. But those men are powerful. I have to depend on
them a great deal. So you can see that I couldn't do anything without
first consulting them."
Sanderson left Lazette in disgust. It was not until after he had tried
in Dry Bottom and Las Vegas that he realized how subtle and
far-reaching was the power and influence of the financial rulers of
Okar.
"We should like to let you have the money," the Las Vegas banker told
him. "But, unfortunately, a loan to you would conflict with our
interests in Okar. We know the big men in Okar have been considering
the water question in the basin, and we should not like to antagonize
them."
The trip consumed two weeks, and Sanderson returned to the Double A to
discover that during his absence very little work had been done.
"It looks like we're up against it," Williams informed him when pressed
for an explanation. "We can't get a pound of material. I went
personally to Okar and was told by Silverthorn that the railroad would
accept no material consigned to the Double A ranch."
"Pretty raw," was Sanderson's only comment.
"Raw? It's rotten!" declared Williams. "There's plenty of the kind
of material we want in Lazette. To get it here would mean a fifty-mile
haul. I can get teams and wagons in Lazette," he added, an eager note
in his voice.
"Go to it," said Sanderson.
Williams smiled admiringly. "You're game, Mr. Man," he said; "it's a
pleasure to work for you!"
However, it was not courage that impelled Sanderson to accept the
hazard and expense of the fifty-mile haul. In his mind during the days
he had been trying to borrow money had been a picture of the defeat
that was ahead of him if he did not succeed; he could imagine the
malicious satisfaction with which his three enemies would discuss his
failure.
Inwardly, Sanderson was writhing with impatience and consumed with an
eagerness to get into personal contact with his enemies, the passion to
triumph had gripped his soul, and a contempt for the sort of law in
which Okar dealt had grown upon him until the contemplation of it had
aroused in him a savage humor.
Okar's law was not law at all; it was a convenience under which his
three enemies could assail the property rights of others.
Outwardly, Sanderson was a smiling optimist. To Mary Bransford he
confided that all was going well.
Neither had broached the subject of Sanderson's impersonation since the
night of Dale's visit. It was a matter which certain thoughts made
embarrassing for Mary, and Sanderson was satisfied to keep silent.
But on the day that Williams left the Double A for Lazette, Mary's
curiosity could not be denied. She had conquered that constraint which
had resulted from the revelation of Sanderson's identity, and had asked
him to ride to the top of the gorge, telling him she wanted him to
explain the proposed system of irrigation.
"It is desperately hard to get any information out of Williams," she
told Sanderson; "he simply won't talk about the work."
"Meanin' that he'll talk rapid enough about other things, eh?"
Sanderson returned. He looked slyly at Mary.
"What other things are there for him to talk about?"
"A man could find a heap of things to talk about--to a woman. He might
talk about himself--or the woman," suggested Sanderson, grinning.
She gave him a knowing look. "Oh," she said, reddening. "Yes," she
added, smiling faintly, "now that you speak of it, I remember he did
talk quite a little. He is a very interesting man."
"Good-looking too," said Sanderson; "an' smart. He saw the prospects
of this thing right off."
"Didn't you see them?" she questioned quickly.
"Oh, that," he said, flushing. "If the Drifter hadn't told me mebbe I
wouldn't have seen."
"You have always been around cattle, I suppose?" she asked.
"Raised with them," smiled Sanderson.
Thus she directed the conversation to the subject about which she had
wanted to inquire--his past life. Her questions were clever; they were
suggestions to which he could do nothing except to return direct
replies. And she got out of him much of his history, discovering that
he had sound moral views, and a philosophy of which the salient
principle was the scriptural injunction: "Do unto others as ye would
that others should do unto you."
Upon that principle he had founded his character. His reputation had
grown out of an adamantine adherence to it. Looking at him now she
felt the strength of him, his intense devotion to his ideals; the
earnestness of him.
Curiously, she had felt those things during the time she had thought of
him as her brother, and had been conscious of the lure of him. It gave
her a queer thrill to stand beside him now, knowing that she had kissed
him; that he had had an opportunity to take advantage of the situation,
and had not done so.
He had acted the gentleman; he was a gentleman. That was why she was
able to talk with him now. If he had not treated her as he had treated
her his presence at the Double A would have been intolerable.
There was deep respect for women in Sanderson, she knew. Also, despite
his bold, frank glances--which was merely the manhood of him
challenging her and taking note of her charms--there was a hesitating
bashfulness about the man, as though he was not quite certain of the
impression he was creating in her mind.
That knowledge pleased Mary; it convinced her of his entire worthiness;
it gave her power over him--and that power thrilled her.
As her brother, he had been an interesting figure, though his manner
had repelled her. And she had been conscious of a subtle pleasure that
was not all sisterly when she had been near him. She knew, now, that
the sensation had been instinctive, and she wondered if she could have
felt toward her brother as she felt toward this man.
However, this new situation had removed the diffidence that had
affected her; their relations were less matter of fact and more
romantic, and she felt toward him as any woman feels who knows an
admirer pursues her--breathless with the wonder of it, but holding
aloof, tantalizing, whimsical, and uncertain of herself.
She looked at him challengingly, mockery in her eyes.
"So you came here because the Drifter told you there would be
trouble--and a woman. How perfectly delightful!"
He sensed her mood and responded to it.
"It's sure delightful. But it ain't unusual. I've always heard that
trouble will be lurkin' around where there's a woman."
"But you would not say that a woman is not worth the trouble she
causes?" she countered.
"A man is willin' to take her--trouble an' all," he responded, looking
straight at her.
"Yes--if he can get her!" she shot back at him.
"Mostly every woman gets married to a man. I've got as good a chance
as any other man."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're talkin' to me about it," he grinned. "If you wasn't
considerin' me you wouldn't argue with me about it; you'd turn me down
cold an' forget it."
"I suppose when a man is big and romantic-looking----"
"Oh, shucks, ma'am; you'll be havin' me gettin' a swelled head."
"He thinks that all he has to do is to look his best."
"I expect I've looked my worst since I've been here. I ain't had a
chance to do any moonin' at you."
"I don't like men that 'moon,'" she declared.
"That's the reason I didn't do it," he said.
She laughed. "Now, tell me," she asked, "how you got your name,
'Deal.' It had something to do with cards, I suppose?"
"With weight," he said, looking soberly at her. "When I was born my
dad looked at me sort of nonplussed. I was that big. 'There's a deal
of him,' he told my mother. An' the name stuck. That ain't a lot
mysterious."
"It was a convenient name to attach the 'Square' to," she said.
"I've earned it," he said earnestly. "An' I've had a mighty hard time
provin' my right to wear it. There's men that will tempt you out of
pure deviltry, an' others that will try to shoot such a fancy out of
your system. But I didn't wear the 'Square' because I wanted to--folks
hung it onto me without me askin'. That's one reason I left Tombstone;
I'd got tired of posin' as an angel."
He saw her face grow thoughtful and a haunting expression come into her
eyes.
"You haven't told me how he looked," she said.
Sanderson lied. He couldn't tell her of the dissipation he had seen in
her brother's face, nor of the evilness that had been stamped there.
He drew a glowing picture of the man he had buried, and told her that
had he lived her brother would have done her credit.
But Sanderson suffered no remorse over the lie. For he saw her eyes
glow with pride, and he knew that the picture he had drawn would be the
ideal of her memory for the future.