CHAPTER XX
During the next twelve hours there was much riding from ranch to ranch.Of all the small dams constructed and maintained by the ranchers forirrigation purposes but one remained; and that one was Donald McCrae's.
McCrae himself considered this an invidious distinction. He would havepreferred to suffer with his neighbours. He did not know why hisstructure had been spared, and he lent men and teams to others,labouring hard himself in the task of rebuilding.
The temper of the ranchers was at the breaking point. Naturally theblame fell on Farwell; he was the villain of the piece. He had expectedunpopularity, but he had no idea of the depth of it. The black looks hemet did not disturb him in the least; nor, to do him justice, would hehave been seriously alarmed if he had known that more than one man wasquite ready to pick a deadly quarrel with him. For some time he had notseen Sheila McCrae, but he found himself thinking of her constantly.And so, one evening he rode over to Talapus.
Somewhat to his relief, neither McCrae nor Sandy was visible. Mrs.McCrae was calmly civil. Her manner gave no hint that he was unwelcome.Sheila, she told him, had gone for a walk somewhere along the ditch.
"Oh," said Farwell, with elaborate carelessness, "then I think I'lljust stroll along and meet her."
At the end of ten minutes' walk he came upon the girl. She was sitting,her chin propped on her hands, beside the stream where a littlebordering grove of willows had sprung up. The deep murmur of therunning water muffled his footsteps so that she neither saw nor heardhim till he was at her side.
"Good evening," he said.
She turned her head slowly, without start or exclamation.
"I did not expect to see you, Mr. Farwell."
"I thought I'd run over," he said awkwardly. "I intended to comebefore."
She allowed a long minute of silence to lie between them. "And why haveyou come now?" she asked.
"Why?" Farwell repeated the word. "Why? I wanted to see you. Whyshouldn't I come?"
"You ought to know why. It's one thing to do your work; but it's quiteanother to blow up our dams!"
"Why do you think I did that?"
"Because I have ordinary common sense. I don't suppose you did it withyour own hand. But you've brought in a bunch of toughs and gunmen tooverawe us and do your dirty work. It will lead to serious trouble."
"I can handle trouble," said Farwell grimly. "Has anybody meddled withyour dam?"
"No."
"Then I don't see what you have to complain of. I don't admit anything.But when you get indignant at blowing up dams you ought to rememberwhat happened to ours."
"Oh, as for that"--she shrugged her shoulders. "We had to have water.Nobody blamed you before. But these dams that did you no harm--that'sdifferent."
"But you _have_ water. Your own dam is all right," he insisted.
"Yes. And do you know what people are saying? They say that the reasonis because we have some sort of an understanding with you. Theysay----" She stopped abruptly.
"What else do they say?"
"Other things. I've told you enough."
"What do you care?"
"Well, I do care. This is the only house you come to. Your visits mustend now."
"End?" Farwell echoed. "I guess not. Not unless you absolutely forbidme to come. And then I don't know. I'd find it pretty hard."
"Nonsense!"
"I tell you I would," he protested. "You don't know."
"Bosh! We're not so fascinating as that."
Now Farwell was of the battle-axe type. He was accustomed to take whathe wanted, to smash through opposition. He looked at the girl facinghim in the fading light, and a great desire swelled within him. Herwords gave the needed spur to his courage, and he went to the point ashe would have gone in to quell a riot in a camp.
"'We,'" he said. "Who's talking of 'we'? I'm not. I come to see _you_.You ought to know that. Of course you know it. I didn't think I'd everfall in love, but I _have_. You might as well know it now. I don't knowwhether you think anything of me or not; it would be just my luck ifyou didn't. Anyway, that's how I feel, and I'm not going to give upseeing you just because some people have set a crazy yarn going."
The words boiled out of him like steam from a hot spring. He scowled ather ferociously, his eyes hot and angry. It would have been difficultto imagine a more unloverlike attitude. And yet she had no doubt of hissincerity. She would have been less than woman if she had not suspectedhis feelings before. But she had not expected this outbreak.
"I'm sorry you said that," she told him quietly. "It's quiteimpossible. I can tell you now what I couldn't tell you before. Peoplesay that I have promised to marry you in exchange for your promise thatwe shall have water for the ranch."
"If you'll tell me the name of a man who utters an infernal lie likethat I'll wring his neck," he growled.
"I believe you would. But what good would it do? You can't fightrumours and gossip in that way. That's the trouble with you--you dependon force alone. Can't you see the position this puts us in--puts _me_in? You can't come here any more."
"I don't see that at all," he objected. "I'll blow up your dam myselfif you think it will help, but as for not seeing you--why, it's out ofthe question. I've got to see you. I'm going to see you. I can't helpit. I tell you I think of you all the time. Why, hang it, Sheila, Ithink of you when I ought to be thinking of my work."
She would have laughed if she had not seen that he was in deadlyearnest. His work was a fetish, all-absorbing, demanding and receivingthe tribute of his entire attention and energy. That thought of a womanshould come between him and it was proof positive of devotionextraordinary.
"You must not do that," she said, gently.
"But I can't help it," he reiterated. "It's new to me, this. I can'tconcentrate on my work. I keep thinking of you. If that isn't being inlove, what in thunder is? I'm talking to you as straight as I'd talk toa man. I believe I love you as much as any woman was ever loved. Youdon't know much about me, but I'm considered a good man in myprofession. From a material point of view I'm all right."
"If I cared for you that would be the last thing I'd think of."
"Why can't you care for me?" he demanded. "I don't expect much. We'dget along."
"No," she said decidedly. "No. It's impossible. We're comparativelystrangers. I think you're going to be a big man some day. I ratheradmire you in some ways. But that is all."
"Well, anyway, I'm not going to quit," he announced doggedly. "I nevergave up anything yet. You talk as if it didn't matter! Maybe it doesn'tto you, but it does to me. You don't know how much I care. I can't tellyou, either. This talk isn't my line. Look here, though. About tenyears ago, down in the desert of the Southwest, my horse broke his leg,and I was set afoot. I nearly died of thirst before I got out. Allthose blistering days, while I stumbled along in that baking hell, Ikept thinking of a cool spring we had on our place when I was a boy. Itbubbled up in moss at the foot of a big cedar, and I used to lie flatand drink till I couldn't hold any more. It was the sweetest water inthe world. All those days I tortured myself by thinking of it. I'd havegiven my soul, if I have one, to satisfy my thirst at that spring. Andthat's how I feel about you. I want your love as I wanted that water."
"I'm very sorry," she said. "It's out of the question."
"But why?" he demanded. "Give me a chance. I'm not a monster. Or do youmean that you care for somebody else? Is that it? Do you care anythingfor that Dunne? A fellow that's in love with another woman!"
Even in the dying light he could see the dark flush that surged overcheek and brow. She rose to the full height of her lithe figure, facinghim.
"No, I don't!" she flamed. "But if I did what business would it be ofyours? Casey Dunne is my friend--a gentleman--which is more than youseem to be, Mr. Farwell."
She took a step toward him in her indignation. Suddenly, with a sweepof his arm, he clipped her to him, kissing her on forehead and cheek.She struck him in the face with her clenched fist driven by muscles ashard as an
athlete's.
"You great brute!" she panted.
With the blow and the words, Farwell's moment of madness passed. Heheld her from him at arm's length.
"A brute!" he said. "You're right. I didn't know it before. Now, I do.How can I put myself right with you?"
"Let me go!" she cried.
As he released her she heard the quick pad of running feet. Out of thedusk behind her bounded young Sandy McCrae. He came like a young wolfto its first kill, his lips lifted in a snarl. In his right hand lay along-barrelled, black Colt's.
"Sheila!" he cried. "What's the matter? Who's this? What in--ah!"
The gun leaped up. Instinctively she threw out her hand, striking it ashe pulled the trigger. A thin stream of flame blazed almost intoFarwell's face, and the sharp report split the evening silence intofragments. Something like a questing finger of death ran through hishair, and his hat twitched from his head, to flutter down softly tenfeet away. But he was unhurt.
Sheila locked both arms around her brother's, dragging it down.
"No, no, no!" she cried. "I tell you no, Sandy! Don't shoot again. It'sa mistake."
He wrenched furiously to free his hand. "Mistake!" he shouted. "He washolding you! I saw him. I heard you. Let go. I'll blow his heart out!"
But she clung to his arm. "It's a mistake, Sandy, I tell you! Can't youunderstand me? Don't use that gun. I won't let you. Give it to me!"
He ceased his attempts to free his arm. "All right, Sheila. I won'tshoot--this time. You, Farwell, what have you got to say for yourself?"
"Mighty little," Farwell replied. "I asked your sister to marry me, andshe refused. I kissed her against her will. That's all--and plenty. Ifyou want my opinion, I think I ought to be shot."
Sandy glared at him, taken aback by this frank admission.
"If she hadn't jolted my hand you sure would have been," he saidgrimly. "You're mighty lucky to be alive right now. After this if I seeyou----"
"Shut up, Sandy!" Sheila interrupted authoritatively, with sisterlydirectness. "I'm quite able to look after my own affairs. Mr. Farwellis sorry. You be white enough to let it go that way."
"It's up to you, if you want it," Sandy replied. "If you can stand fora thing like that once I can. But not twice."
"There won't be any twice. Shall we go to the house, Mr. Farwell?"
Farwell, amazed, fell into step with her. He had expected to beoverwhelmed with reproaches, to face a storm of feminine anger. Still,he could not think that she was palliating his offence; and he wasquite aware that she had saved his life. Young McCrae, in offendeddignity, stalked in front.
"I want you to know," said Farwell, "that I'm utterly ashamed ofmyself. To prove it I'm going to do the best I can. I'm going to wirein my resignation, and I'm going away."
"Don't."
"What?" he exclaimed incredulously.
"Don't. You are sorry, and that's the main thing. We won't mention itagain. And neither will Sandy. But for a while you must not come here."
"I'll do anything," he said. "I think you are the best girl on earth."
Sheila did not reply; but she did not reprove him.
Mrs. McCrae, looking somewhat anxious, met them at the house.
"I heard a shot," she said. "Was it you, Sandy?"
"Yes," her son replied.
"What did you shoot at?"
The young man glanced at Farwell from the corner of his eye.
"A skunk," he replied. "I missed him."
Sheila bit her lip angrily. Farwell took his medicine in silence.
Desert Conquest; or, Precious Waters Page 20