Desert Conquest; or, Precious Waters

by A. M. Chisholm

  CHAPTER V

  No one has ever satisfactorily explained the rapidity with which newstravels in sparsely settled communities. But the fact remainsundisputed. Also the further fact that its accuracy is in inverse ratioto its rapidity, which does not need so much explanation. The men whohad been at Talapus said nothing of the meeting, nothing of the purposeof it. And yet the gathering was speedily known from one end of thecountry to the other in conjunction with startling rumours, none ofthem authentic or traceable, but all disquieting. The report gainedcurrency that the ranchers contemplated nothing less than an armedattack on the ditch and dam construction camps, for the purpose ofrunning the workmen out of the country.

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

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

  "I'll send Farwell down there," said York, speaking to Carrol, who wasthe 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 tremendousdriver, who spared no one, not even himself, was the further fact thathe was harsh, domineering, impatient, lacking tact or diplomacy. He wasa fighter by instinct. He preferred to break through than to go around.He antagonized rather than conciliated. But in the event of realtrouble he was there with the genuine, hall-marked goods, as he hadshown on several occasions when a hard man had been needed. The landdepartment, however, had it's own staff, and Carrol did not like theimportation 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," saidYork positively. "He'll bring these ranchers to time. I'll send him."

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

  When he stepped off the train at the little Coldstream station he wasalready prejudiced against the country, its inhabitants, and itsfuture; and what he saw as the train rumbled away into the distance didnot tend to improve his temper.

  Coldstream itself for years had amounted to little more than apost-office address. From the time of its building in the days of aboom which had no foundation, and therefore no permanence, it hadretrogressed steadily. Now it was picking up. But although times werebeginning to improve, it still bore many of the earmarks of anabandoned camp. The struggle for life during the lean years was moreapparent in outward sign than was the present convalescence. Most ofthe houses were now occupied, but almost all were unpainted, stainedgray and brown by wind and sun and snow, forlorn and hideous things ofloosened boards and flapping ends of tarred sheeting.

  Although it was only spring, the road which wound from nowhere betweenthe unsightly shacks was ankle deep in dust. The day was unseasonablywarm, the air still. The dust lay on the young leaves of the occasionalclumps of cottonwoods, and seemed to impregnate the air so that it wasperceptible to the nostrils--a warm, dry, midsummer smell, elusive, butpervasive. The whole land swam and shimmered in hot sunshine. Theunpainted buildings danced in it, blurring with the heat waves. Savefor the occasional green of cottonwoods, the land lay in the brownnakedness of a dry spring, wearying the eye with its sameness.

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

  The individual who seemed to combine the functions of station agent andbaggage hustler approached, wheeling a truck. He was a small man,gray-headed, with a wrinkled, wizened face, and eyes of faded blue. Tohim 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 astrange, pungent odour assailed Farwell's nostrils.

  "What did yez say?" he asked. "Onforch'nately me right a-cowstick organis temp'rar'ly to the bad from shootin' a po-o-olecat. The gun bustedon me, and I massacreed the marauder wid an ax. Did iver ye disthroy askunk wid an ax? Then don't. Avoid mixin' it wid the od'riferousanimals. Faix, I've buried me clothes--it was a new nightshirt, aflannel wan that I had on--and scrubbed meself wid kerosene andwhale-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 thedown-wind side of yez. Ye see, it was like this: The t'ief iv thewurruld was in me chicken house----"

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

  "Farrel, is ut?" said the station agent. "I knowed a Farrel thirtyyears 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 yermother. 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'mglad to know ye. There's mighty few drummers stops off here now, buttrade's bound to pick up, wid the land boom an' all." A sidelong glanceat the perfecto clenched between Farwell's teeth. "W'u'd seegyars beyer line, now? I'm a judge of a seegyar meself, though the bum smokesthey 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 likeI'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 toknow if there are any telegrams for me, and where the devil the campis, and how I get to it. And that's about all I want to know, exceptwhether 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 inself-reproach. "Sure, I've often heard of yez. I live over beyant, inthe shack wid the picket fince on wan side iv ut. The other sidesblowed down in a dust storm a year gone, and I will erect them some daywhen I have time. But ye can't miss me place, more be token half thefront iv the house was painted wanst. They say the paint was stole, butno matter. Bein' both officials iv the comp'ny, Mr. Farrel, we willhave much to talk over. No doubt ye have been referred to me fordetails iv the disturbin' rumours. Well, it's this wa-ay: I am in theservice 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 thepolicy 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. "Thecomp'ny's land agent, Mr. Sleeman, will take ye wherever ye want to goin 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 paysme 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. Butdo ut as aisy as ye can." He broke off, eying two riders who wereapproaching the station.

  "Who are those people?" asked Farwell.

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

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

  "_Miss_ McCrae is a _leddy_," said Quilty, with quiet dignity. "AndCasey 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 thename 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 thecomp'ny's ice wather wid a shot iv a limon, or shall I bring ye apitcher?"

  "I'll 'light, Mr. Quilty, thank you," said Sheila. She swung down fromBeaver 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 methim once."

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

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

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

  Casey Dunne was lighter, leaner, more finely drawn. Lacking theimpression of pure force, of sheer power, he seemed to express thecapacity for larger endurance, of better staying qualities, of greatertensile strength. He was cast in another mould, a weapon of a differentpattern. 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 matterswith Dunne, whom he looked upon as a leader of the alleged troublemakers, and therefore directly responsible for his, Farwell's, presencein 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 irrigationditches, and I'm going to rush the job."

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

  Farwell was taken aback. There was no hint of insincerity in theother'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 tellDunne that he was also prepared to take care of any trouble that mightarise, 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 everytime. Well, good morning, Mr. Farwell. Glad to see you at my ranch anytime. Ask anybody where it is."

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

  He picked up his grip, and walked up into the town, finding thecompany'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 abilityto play a very good game. He was in his shirt sleeves for greatercomfort, and he smoked particularly strong plug tobacco in a brierpipe.

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

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

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

  "Not here," said Sleeman. "The men who will be affected aren't doingany talking at all. That looks bad to me. They are just standing patand 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 ofstraight farmers. The worst of it is that these rumours are hurting usalready, and they'll hurt us worse."

  "How?"

  "Landlookers hear them, and shy off. No man wants to buy into a feudwith his neighbours--to buy land with water that somebody else thinkshe ought to have. Before I can make a showing in actual sales thisthing has got to be settled."

  "Huh!" said Farwell. "Well, I'll finish the job, and turn the waterdown the ditches, and that's all I have to do. I met one of thesefellows 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 toldme to be careful with sidehill ditches, and so on, just as if it didn'taffect him at all. Too innocent for me. I had a notion to tell him hewasn'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'smake 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. Goodpeople, 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 manof violent prejudices, and disliking Dunne instinctively, he found iteasy to dislike his friends. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do," heannounced. "I'm going to put it up to these fellows straight the firstchance I get that we don't care a hang for anything they may do. Ifthey want trouble they can come a-running."

  "Well," Sleeman commented, "of course, I'm here to sell land. Thecompany is my boss, and naturally I back its play. But my personalopinion is that it would have been better to have bought those fellowsout, even at fancy prices, than to ride over them roughshod. They'resore now, and you can't wonder at it. If I were you I'd go easy--justas easy as I could."

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

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

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

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