Читать книгу Desert Conquest - Clarence Rowe - Страница 8

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No one has ever satisfactorily explained the rapidity with which news travels in sparsely settled communities. But the fact remains undisputed. Also the further fact that its accuracy is in inverse ratio to its rapidity, which does not need so much explanation. The men who had been at Talapus said nothing of the meeting, nothing of the purpose of it. And yet the gathering was speedily known from one end of the country to the other in conjunction with startling rumours, none of them authentic or traceable, but all disquieting. The report gained currency that the ranchers contemplated nothing less than an armed attack on the ditch and dam construction camps, for the purpose of running the workmen out of the country.

This came to the ears of Sleeman, who was the local sales agent of the railway's land department; and Sleeman passed it on to his chief, who thought it of sufficient importance to put up to York, seeing that that gentleman was responsible for the conception of the department's policy in this instance.

York, while not attaching much importance to the story, thought of the remarks of Casey Dunne. It was just possible that the ranchers might perpetrate some hostile act. It happened, too, that at this time the engineer in charge of the Coldstream irrigation project took sick, necessitating the appointment of a new man. And it further happened that another engineer in the railway's employ, named Farwell, had got through with a difficult piece of tunnelling, and was ready for fresh work.

"I'll send Farwell down there," said York, speaking to Carrol, who was the head of his land department.

Now, Farwell was altogether too good a man to waste on a little, puttering job like this. He had seen service in half a dozen countries, always with credit to himself, and he was in line for big promotion. But against his undoubted ability and the fact that he was a tremendous driver, who spared no one, not even himself, was the further fact that he was harsh, domineering, impatient, lacking tact or diplomacy. He was a fighter by instinct. He preferred to break through than to go around. He antagonized rather than conciliated. But in the event of real trouble he was there with the genuine, hall-marked goods, as he had shown on several occasions when a hard man had been needed. The land department, however, had it's own staff, and Carrol did not like the importation of an outsider.

"No need to send Farwell," said he. "We can look after it ourselves."

"Farwell's the best man we can have there if anything goes wrong," said York positively. "He'll bring these ranchers to time. I'll send him."

Farwell descended on the Coldstream country in a bitter temper, for the job was far beneath his professional dignity as he looked at it, and he knew that in the meantime others would get better work to which he considered himself entitled. Indeed, he had come within an ace of resigning, and had insisted, as a condition, on a definite promise of something very good in the immediate future.

When he stepped off the train at the little Coldstream station he was already prejudiced against the country, its inhabitants, and its future; and what he saw as the train rumbled away into the distance did not tend to improve his temper.

Coldstream itself for years had amounted to little more than a post-office address. From the time of its building in the days of a boom which had no foundation, and therefore no permanence, it had retrogressed steadily. Now it was picking up. But although times were beginning to improve, it still bore many of the earmarks of an abandoned camp. The struggle for life during the lean years was more apparent in outward sign than was the present convalescence. Most of the houses were now occupied, but almost all were unpainted, stained gray and brown by wind and sun and snow, forlorn and hideous things of loosened boards and flapping ends of tarred sheeting.

Although it was only spring, the road which wound from nowhere between the unsightly shacks was ankle deep in dust. The day was unseasonably warm, the air still. The dust lay on the young leaves of the occasional clumps of cottonwoods, and seemed to impregnate the air so that it was perceptible to the nostrils—a warm, dry, midsummer smell, elusive, but pervasive. The whole land swam and shimmered in hot sunshine. The unpainted buildings danced in it, blurring with the heat waves. Save for the occasional green of cottonwoods, the land lay in the brown nakedness of a dry spring, wearying the eye with its sameness.

Farwell swore to himself at the prospect, feeling his grievance against his employers and the world at large become more acute. He considered himself ill-used, slighted, and he registered a mental vow to rush his work and be quit of the accursed place at the earliest possible moment.

The individual who seemed to combine the functions of station agent and baggage hustler approached, wheeling a truck. He was a small man, gray-headed, with a wrinkled, wizened face, and eyes of faded blue. To him the engineer addressed himself.

"I'm Farwell," said he.

The agent halted the truck, smiled in friendly fashion, swung around, and presented his left ear cupped in his left hand. At the same time a strange, pungent odour assailed Farwell's nostrils.

"What did yez say?" he asked. "Onforch'nately me right a-cowstick organ is temp'rar'ly to the bad from shootin' a po-o-olecat. The gun busted on me, and I massacreed the marauder wid an ax. Did iver ye disthroy a skunk wid an ax? Then don't. Avoid mixin' it wid the od'riferous animals. Faix, I've buried me clothes—it was a new nightshirt, a flannel wan that I had on—and scrubbed meself wid kerosene and whale-oil soap that I keep f'r the dog, and I'm no bed of vi'lets yet. I can see ye wrinkle yer nose, and I don't blame yez. I'll move to the down-wind side of yez. Ye see, it was like this: The t'ief iv the wurruld was in me chicken house——"

"I said I was Farwell," that gentleman interrupted.

"Farrel, is ut?" said the station agent. "I knowed a Farrel thirty years gone. W'u'd he be yer father, now? His people come from Munster, if I mind right. Ye do not favour him, but maybe ye take after yer mother. Still, I'm thinkin' ye can't be his son, on account of yer age; though he turned Mormon, and I heerd——"

"I said Farwell, not Farrel," the engineer interpolated. "Richard K. Farwell." He thought it all the introduction necessary.

The station agent extended a welcoming hand. "Me own name is C. P. Quilty," said he, "the initials indicatin' Cornelius Patrick, and I'm glad to know ye. There's mighty few drummers stops off here now, but trade's bound to pick up, wid the land boom an' all." A sidelong glance at the perfecto clenched between Farwell's teeth. "W'u'd seegyars be yer line, now? I'm a judge of a seegyar meself, though the bum smokes they do be makin' nowadays has dhruv me to the pipe. No offense to you, Mr. Farrel, for no doubt ye carry a better line nor most. If ye like I'll introduce ye to Bob Shiller, that keeps the hotel——"

"Look here," snapped Farwell, at the end of his patience, "I'm Farwell, the engineer come down to take charge of this irrigation job. I want to know if there are any telegrams for me, and where the devil the camp is, and how I get to it. And that's about all I want to know, except whether I can get a bath at this hotel of Shiller's."

And Cornelius Patrick Quilty shook hands with him again.

"To think iv me takin' ye fur a drummer, now!" he exclaimed in self-reproach. "Sure, I've often heard of yez. I live over beyant, in the shack wid the picket fince on wan side iv ut. The other sides blowed down in a dust storm a year gone, and I will erect them some day when I have time. But ye can't miss me place, more be token half the front iv the house was painted wanst. They say the paint was stole, but no matter. Bein' both officials iv the comp'ny, Mr. Farrel, we will have much to talk over. No doubt ye have been referred to me for details iv the disturbin' rumours. Well, it's this wa-ay: I am in the service iv the comp'ny, and I dhraw me pay wid regularity, praise be, so that I w'u'd not for a moment think of questionin' the wisdom iv the policy iv me superiors——"

"That's right—don't!" snapped Farwell. "Now, get me those telegrams, if there are any, and tell me what I want to know."

A hurt look crept into Mr. Quilty's eyes of faded blue.

"I regret that I have no messages for ye, sor," said he. "The comp'ny's land agent, Mr. Sleeman, will take ye wherever ye want to go in his autymobile. Ye will see his sign as ye go uptown. But, speakin' as man to man, Mr. Farwell, and havin' the interests of thim that pays me to heart, I w'u'd venture on a little advice."

"Well, what is it?" asked Farwell.

"It's this," said Quilty. "The men hereabouts—the ranchers—is sore. Don't make them sorer. Duty is duty, and must be done, iv coorse. But do ut as aisy as ye can." He broke off, eying two riders who were approaching the station.

"Who are those people?" asked Farwell.

"The man is Misther Casey Dunne, and the young leddy is Miss Sheila McCrae," Quilty informed him.

"I've heard of Dunne," said Farwell, who had done so from York. "Who's the McCrae girl? Is she one of the same bunch?"

"Miss McCrae is a leddy," said Quilty, with quiet dignity. "And Casey Dunne is—is a dom good friend of mine."

The riders drew up at the platform, and Casey Dunne hailed the agent. "Hallo, Corney! Any freight for Talapus or Chakchak?" The last was the name of his own ranch, and in the Chinook jargon signified an eagle.

"Freight for both iv yez," Quilty replied. "But sure ye won't be takin' it on the cayuses. Howdy, Miss Sheila! Will ye 'light and try the comp'ny's ice wather wid a shot iv a limon, or shall I bring ye a pitcher?"

"I'll 'light, Mr. Quilty, thank you," said Sheila. She swung down from Beaver Boy, letting the lines trail, and Dunne dropped off Shiner.

Quilty introduced the engineer punctiliously. Farwell raised his hat, and bowed to the girl, but did not offer his hand to Casey Dunne.

"I've heard of you—from York," he said meaningly.

"I've heard that Mr. York has a wonderful memory for faces and names," said Casey. "Quite flattering to be remembered by him. I've only met him once."

"He remembers you very well," Farwell returned dryly.

Sheila McCrae stood by, watching them, hearing the rasp of steel beneath the apparently casual words. And unconsciously she measured the men, one against the other.

Farwell was slightly the taller and much the heavier. He created the impression of force, of dominance. The heavy, square chin, the wide, firm mouth, the black, truculent eyes beneath heavy brows, all marked the master, if not the tyrant. His body was thick and muscular, and he stood solidly, confident of himself, of his position, a man to command.

Casey Dunne was lighter, leaner, more finely drawn. Lacking the impression of pure force, of sheer power, he seemed to express the capacity for larger endurance, of better staying qualities, of greater tensile strength. He was cast in another mould, a weapon of a different pattern. Farwell might be compared to a battle-axe; Dunne to a rapier.

And being of the battle-axe type Farwell saw no reason to mince matters with Dunne, whom he looked upon as a leader of the alleged trouble makers, and therefore directly responsible for his, Farwell's, presence in that confounded desert.

"No," he said, "York doesn't forget much. And he hears quite a lot, too. I've come down to finish this dam, and complete the irrigation ditches, and I'm going to rush the job."

"It's pretty well along, I hear," Dunne commented. "You'll be putting the finishing touches to it pretty soon. Quite a nice piece of work, that. You want to be careful of the sidehill ditches, though. They wash, sometimes."

Farwell was taken aback. There was no hint of insincerity in the other's tone. It was impersonal, as if he were not at all concerned.

"I'll be careful enough," he returned. He would have liked to tell Dunne that he was also prepared to take care of any trouble that might arise, but on second thought he decided to wait for a better opening. "I'll be plenty careful of a good many things," he added significantly.

"Nothing like it," Dunne rejoined. "Water finds the weak spots every time. Well, good morning, Mr. Farwell. Glad to see you at my ranch any time. Ask anybody where it is."

Farwell stared after him for a moment, a little puzzled and by no means satisfied with himself. He had come openly contemptuous of the ranchers, thinking of them as rough, unlettered farmers who must necessarily stand in awe of him. But here was a different type. "Pretty smooth proposition, that Dunne," he growled to himself. "'Water finds the weak spots,' hey! Now, I wonder what he meant by that?"

He picked up his grip, and walked up into the town, finding the company's office without difficulty, and introduced himself to Sleeman, the sales agent, whom he had never met.

Mr. Sleeman possessed a shrewd eye, and a face indicative of an ability to play a very good game. He was in his shirt sleeves for greater comfort, and he smoked particularly strong plug tobacco in a brier pipe.

"What's in these yarns, anyhow?" Farwell asked, when they had got down to business.

"Ask me something easier," Sleeman replied. "I gave headquarters all I heard. If I were you I'd keep my eyes open."

"I'll do that," said Farwell. "These fellows always do a lot of talking, and let it go at that."

"Not here," said Sleeman. "The men who will be affected aren't doing any talking at all. That looks bad to me. They are just standing pat and saying nothing. But you can bet they are doing some thinking. Mighty bad lot to run up against if they start anything—old-timers, ex-punchers, prospectors, freighters, and fur men, with a sprinkling of straight farmers. The worst of it is that these rumours are hurting us already, and they'll hurt us worse."

"How?"

"Landlookers hear them, and shy off. No man wants to buy into a feud with his neighbours—to buy land with water that somebody else thinks he ought to have. Before I can make a showing in actual sales this thing has got to be settled."

"Huh!" said Farwell. "Well, I'll finish the job, and turn the water down the ditches, and that's all I have to do. I met one of these fellows at the station—Dunne, his name is."

"Oh, you met Casey Dunne. And what do you think of him?"

"Don't like him; he's too smooth. Looked me square in the eye, and told me to be careful with sidehill ditches, and so on, just as if it didn't affect him at all. Too innocent for me. I had a notion to tell him he wasn't fooling me a little bit."

"H'm!" said Sleeman. "Well, I give Casey credit for being a good man. He has a big stake here—owns a lot of land besides his ranch. It's make or break with him."

"Then I'm sorry for him. He had a girl with him—McCrae her name is. Who's she?"

"Her father owns Talapus Ranch. It's the biggest and best here. Good people, the McCraes."

"And I suppose Dunne's going to marry her? Is that it?"

"I never heard so. But if he is I don't blame him; she's all right, that girl."

Farwell grunted. He had rather liked Sheila's looks, but, being a man of violent prejudices, and disliking Dunne instinctively, he found it easy to dislike his friends. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do," he announced. "I'm going to put it up to these fellows straight the first chance I get that we don't care a hang for anything they may do. If they want trouble they can come a-running."

"Well," Sleeman commented, "of course, I'm here to sell land. The company is my boss, and naturally I back its play. But my personal opinion is that it would have been better to have bought those fellows out, even at fancy prices, than to ride over them roughshod. They're sore now, and you can't wonder at it. If I were you I'd go easy—just as easy as I could."

"Nonsense!" snorted Farwell. "That's what that old fool of a mick down at the station told me. How the devil does the company happen to have such an old fossil on the job?"

"Quilty's a left-over from construction days. He's been here ever since steel was laid. They say he averted a bad smash once by sheer nerve or pure Irish luck. Anyway, he has a sort of guarantee of his job for life. Not a bad old boy when you get to know him."

"He ought to be fired, and a younger man put in his place," said Farwell. "He talks too much. Good Lord! He's like an endless record!"

"Pshaw! What do you care?" said Sleeman. "He's better than a talking machine in this place. Well, come over to the hotel, and afterward I'll run you out to the camp."