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HUGH STANTON had now been in Meade about a month, and was well pleased with his new position. Money poured in from the East for investment, and seemed as free as water among the people. Deposits continually increased in the bank, while the ruling rates of interest were very high. Investments were quickly turned and immense dividends declared and sent on to the Eastern capitalists, who in turn became intoxicated with the desire for more of these large profits, and consequently sent back their money for reinvestment. Not content with this, they borrowed to the full extent of their credit, at a low rate of interest, and sent on the funds for Western investment and speculation. Barley, wheat, and other cereals yielded enormously, and lands that had been purchased from the government at a dollar and a quarter per acre changed hands—within a year—at from thirty to forty dollars per acre in favored localities. Real estate in Meade that had cost original purchasers from fifty to one hundred dollars per lot sold readily at from one thousand to five thousand dollars each.

During all the progress and prosperity there was one class—the cattlemen—who were firm disbelievers in the agricultural permanency of the Southwest. Prominent among these disbelievers was John B. Horton, the cattle king. Major Hampton said, in the columns of the that the cattle barons wanted these rich, nutritious buffalo grass lands for their vast herds of cattle, and that in their selfishness they were willing to prevent their settlement by the actual tillers of the soil.

One afternoon Hugh went horseback riding down the Crooked Creek valley. He was exploring territory new to him, and presently he came to the banks of the Manaroya, a beautiful stream that had its rise in Horton’s Grove. The cool, refreshing waters of this rapid, pebble-bottomed brook were, indeed, a welcome sight. It presented a striking contrast to the dreary stretch of gray and brown prairie lands that lay monotonously level for miles in every direction; save a large elm-tree and Horton’s Grove, perhaps a mile away to the westward, which were like coral islands in a vast inland sea. Hugh had dismounted and was standing idly at its brink watching the restless, rippling waters in their flight from the gushing springs in the lichened woods above, on and on, even to the boundless ocean. Here the waters sparkled in all their purity—filtered dewdrops.

“How restful,” mused Hugh, “what a fairyland for dreams—for day-dreams.”

There, before him, the tiny bubbles in the eddies seemed to dance and laugh and chase each other round and round in romping play. Now they paused as if to rest—or to whisper great secrets—or, perhaps, it was to warn each other of the dread future in the mighty ocean beyond. Just below, the channel widened, and the noisy waters of the riffles changed into a miniature lake—calm, peaceful. The lone elm-tree, with its spreading branches, grew upon the brink; its gnarled and twisted roots reached far out into the bed that held the placid waters. This cool retreat was the summer home of the lazy turtle, of sunfish and of “mud-cat.” Out from coverlets of rock and root peeped many an unseen, blinking eye in wonderment at Hugh.

Here, in this tranquil pool, nature had fashioned, with her magic brush, a picture framed about with countless wild flowers. In this realistic dream every fluttering leaf on every limb and branch trembled in rhythm. Here the shadows sifted, the sunbeams danced, the birds flew. Here the butterflies floated lazily in holiday attire, as if on wings of pleasure. Here the gaudy-winged “snake feeder” skipped from side to side, across the waters, as if he were abroad in search of trade and barter.

Again, this embryonic lake was a mirror for sky and cloud—for each nodding flower and grass blade that craned its little neck, in vanity, over the margin, that it, too, might see itself reflected in this looking-glass of nature. Higher than Jacob’s Ladder appeared the bending sky and floating clouds, and yet, inverted, they seemed deeper than lie buried the broken images of a life.

Suddenly Hugh’s reverie was broken in upon by the calling of a brusque “Hello, there, pard-ner! Are you looking for mavericks?”

Hugh found himself face to face with a rather heavy-set man, with a full gray beard and soft dark eyes. The stranger had dismounted from his mustang, and stood eyeing Hugh critically from the opposite bank.

“I have lost no mavericks, that I know of,” replied Hugh, stiffly. “May I ask what you are doing and what you are looking for?”

“I am attending to my own affairs,” replied the man. “I am on my own land, which, perhaps, is more than you can say for yourself.”

“I may not be on my own land,” answered Hugh, half angrily, “but I am attending to my own business. Am I breaking any law by taking a gallop across the valley, or resting by this stream of water?”

The stranger laughed good-naturedly at Hugh’s irritation. “Hot blood of youth,” said he; “come, don’t be so touchy. There’s only a small thing between us—a narrow stream of spring water. You look like a manly fellow, and I suppose you are all right, although you are a stranger to me.”

“I am a resident of Meade,” said Hugh, “and the cashier of one of its banks.”

“Is that so?” asked the man, in surprise. “You are Mr. Stanton, I reckon, Captain Osborn’s friend from Chicago.”

“Exactly,” replied Hugh. “May I inquire your name?”

The stranger threw himself again into his saddle, touched spurs to his horse, and, at a single leap, cleared the brook. Dismounting at Hugh’s side, he said, “My name is Horton. My home is about a mile from here, in Horton’s Grove.”

Hugh’s breath was almost taken away. Here before him stood the great cattle king, John B. Horton, whose estimated wealth was ten million dollars; and yet a man as free from affectation as a cowboy.

“Give us your hand, young man,” said he. “It is well that we should be acquainted. I have been intending to come in and see you, but am kept so exceedingly busy, looking after my cattle, that I have but little time for social matters. Through the machinations of a band of cattle thieves, during the last year I have lost over a thousand head of beeves that were ready for the market.”

“Why, that is a terrible loss, Mr. Horton,” observed Hugh. “Is it not possible to catch the thieves?”

“Easier said than done, young man,” replied the cattle baron. “I would n’t care much for the thirty or forty thousand dollars’ worth of cattle they have already taken, if I could only break up the gang. However, I do not wish to bore you with a ranchman’s troubles. How do you like our country?”

“Oh, very much,” replied Hugh. “I am well pleased with it so far. It seems to be settled with a thrifty class of farmers, and their crops are certainly looking well.”

John Horton laughed derisively. “Farmers!” he ejaculated. “Why, young man, in five years there will not be a so-called farmer within one hundred miles of where you are now standing. The influx of self-styled settlers and farmers is a spasmodic farce, transitory in the extreme. You doubtless regard Meade as a growing, healthy town; yet, within five years from to-day, I shall pasture my cattle on the grass that will be growing in her streets.”

“You astonish me,” said Hugh. “With such a calamity confronting us there can be left but little hope.”

“I am aware,” said John Horton, “that Captain Osborn has a different belief. My old friend, Major Buell Hampton, also takes occasion to brand me as a ‘cattle baron’ in the columns of his paper. Nevertheless, Mr. Stanton, they are both my friends, and I esteem them both as royal good fellows. I assure you, however, that they are sadly mistaken in regard to this being a farmer’s paradise. Wait until the hot winds come. Now hot winds don’t hurt the buffalo grass a particle, for it is indigenous to this soil and climate; but there’s nothing grown by the farmer that can stand before the hot winds.”

“Major Hampton was telling me the other day,” said Hugh, “that the cattle thieves had just stolen two hundred head of your fattest cattle.”

“Yes, that is the latest outrage; but they have been stealing my cattle for the last year. Before the settlers came here we had no cattle thieves to speak of in this country. Major Hampton is a true Southerner, and is doing nis utmost to run down the thieves. I contend that the thieves are none other than the so-called farmers. The major, however, insists that the gang is made up of lawless cowboys.”

“The major seemed very much provoked when he heard of the theft,” said Hugh, “and from the article that appeared in the Patriot the following morning, I imagine that he would be a very severe judge.”

“The major’s personal assistance and the influence of his paper are both on the side of law and order,” replied Mr. Horton. “I have no doubt that sooner or later we shall be successful in running down the thieves.”

The cattle king removed his sombrero, and, leaning against his horse, fanned himself with its broad brim, as he continued:

“The major is a little weak up here,” tapping his forehead, “or else I am when it comes to the matter of politics. I served in a Georgia regiment through the last years of the war, and fought for the cause that was lost. When the war was over, I accepted the conditions of our surrender by respecting the stars and stripes, and have voted a straight Democratic ticket without a scratch ever since. I cannot understand how the major could give up his democracy for populistic doctrines. However, he is withal a noble fellow.”

As the cattle king bared his head, Hugh noticed that it was quite bald, and that it had a great red scar near the crown.

“It is very gratifying,” said Hugh, with his eyes on the scar, “to see those who fought for the lost cause and those who fought to subdue the rebellion living here, side by side, in peace.”

“Yes,” replied Horton, “the wounds are all healed, but the scars are left. Hello! there comes Bill Kinneman, one of my most trustworthy cowboys. Hello, Bill, what’s the news?” Bill Kinneman was short and stoop-shouldered. He had a low forehead, thick black hair, cut square around, a small nose, a protruding chin, and a scraggy beard. A pair of squinting, bloodshot eyes combined with his other facial make-up to give him the appearance of a brute.

“Oh, nothin’ much to tell,” replied Bill. “I foller’d ‘em five days, an’ they clean got away from me.”

“Could n’t you pick up their trail?”

“Yass, we found whure they crossed the Cimarron down in the Strip.”

“Well, why did n’t you follow them?” asked Horton, impatiently.

“We foller’d ‘em as fur as we could, but somehow we wuz jist strugglin’ round in the coils uv error, fur we dun lost the trail—we did fur sure.”

“Well, Bill, I am disgusted with you,” said Mr. Horton. “I used to think you were a nervy fellow and sleuth-hound to track down a thief, but of late you always disappoint me.”

“I know I’m a pore cuss, but don’t unbosom yourself too malignant agin me. Don’t be too hard on me, Mr. Horton. I would n’t wonder a mite if he’d overtake ‘em,” said Kinneman.

“Who the devil do you mean?” asked Horton, angrily.

“Major Hampton; he’s quite a stayer. He’s at least a mighty sight thet ere way. He’ll whup the hull danged outfit if he comes up with ‘em, thet’s what he’ll do. A shootin’ is likely to ensoo if he finds the thieves. Anyway, suthin’ mighty thrillin’ will occur on the landscape thereabouts, for the major will sure ‘nuff use his artillery.”

“Where did you see the major?”

“Way down on the Cimarron, below the red bluffs, jist whure I turned back. I was assoomin’ you’d want me to come an’ make a report. The major sent word to ye thet he was purposin’ to foller ‘em, an’ he’d go clar to the Missoury if he had to.”

“All right, Bill. You may go on to the ranch, put up your pony, and get something to eat.”

The cowboy touched his spurs to the jaded bronco and galloped away up the valley.

“Major Hampton,” said Horton, turning to Hugh, “has good blood in him. I have an impression that he will overtake the thieves.”

Soon after this Hugh took leave of Mr. Horton, who gave him a pressing invitation to call at his ranch. Hugh accepted this invitation by promising to visit Mr. Horton at no distant day.