Half an hour of this slow progress brought him in sight of Talapus Ranch. It had been pointed out to him before; but it was with considerable reluctance that he decided, for his mount's sake, to turn into the trail to the house.
Sheila was on the veranda, and Farwell raised his hat.
"Miss McCrae, I think. You may remember me—Farwell. I'm sorry to trouble you, but my horse has picked up a nail. If I could borrow a pair of pliers or shoeing pincers——"
"Of course. Father is at the stable. I'll show you."
Donald McCrae, just in from a day of irrigating, shook hands, and took the horse's hoof between his knees with the certainty of a farrier.
"Right bang to the head," he observed, as he tried for a grip. "I'll have it in a minute. Hold him, now! Steady, boy! There you are!"
With a twist and an outward wrench he held up the nail between the tips of the pincers. He released the hoof, but the horse held it clear of the ground.
"Sore," said McCrae. "A nasty brute of a piece of wire, too. That's a mighty lame cayuse. You won't ride him for a week—maybe two."
"He'll have to take me to camp, or I'll have to take him."
"And that might lame him for two months. Leave him here. I'll poultice the foot if it needs it. You stay and have supper. Afterward we'll drive you over."
Farwell demurred, surprised. He considered all the ranchers to be leagued against the railway, and in that he was not far wrong. In his mind it followed as a corollary that they were also hostile to him, as he was hostile to them.
"Thanks! It's very good of you, but, under the circumstances—you understand what I mean."
"You needn't feel that way," McCrae returned. "When this country was just country, and no more, a white man was always welcome to my fire, my blankets, and my grub, when I had it. It's no different now, at Talapus. You're welcome to what we have—while we have it. There's no quarrel between us that I know of."
"No, of course not," said Farwell, not quite at his ease. If McCrae chose to put it on that footing he could not reasonably object. "Well, thanks very much. I'll be glad to accept your offer."
An excellent meal put him in better humour. By nature he was a hard man, who took life seriously, engrossed in his profession. He led a nomadic existence, moved continually from one piece of work to another, his temporary habitations ranging from modern hotels to dog tents and shacks. In all the world there was no spot that he could call home; and there was no one who cared a button whether he came or went. His glimpses of other men's homes were rare and fleeting, and he was apt to thank Heaven that he was not thus tied down.
But the atmosphere of the ranch appealed to him. Its people were not silly folk, babbling of trivial things which he neither understood nor cared to understand. Mrs. McCrae, as he mentally appraised her, was a sensible woman. In her husband—big, quiet, self-contained—he recognized a man as hard as himself. Young McCrae, silent, too grim of mouth for his years, was the makings of another hard man. But it was at Sheila that he looked the most, and at her if not to her his conversation was directed.
So much for the simple magic of a white dress. When he had seen her with Dunne, in a dusty riding costume, he had not been especially attracted. He had not thought of her since. Now, she seemed a different person. He liked her level, direct glance, her low, clear voice, the quiet certainty of each movement of her brown hands. Farwell, though his acquaintance with the species was slight, recognized the hall mark. Unmistakably the girl was a lady.
Sheila, listening, felt that her estimate of Farwell needed revision. He was a bigger man than she had thought, stronger, and therefore a more formidable opponent. It seemed to her monstrous, incongruous, that he should be sitting there as a guest and yet be carrying out a project which would ruin them. But since he was a guest he had the rights of a guest.
Afterward she found herself alone with him on the veranda. Her father and brother had gone to the stables, and her mother was indoors planning the next day's housework.
"You smoke, Mr. Farwell?" she said. "I'll get you some cigars."
"I have some in my pocket, thanks."
"No. Talapus cigars at Talapus. That's the rule."
"If you insist on it." He lit a cigar, finding to his relief that it was very good indeed. "Well, Miss McCrae, I must say your hospitality goes the full limit. I'm rather overwhelmed by it."
"What nonsense! Supper, a cigar—that's not very burdensome surely."
"It's the way things are, of course," he explained. "I'm not blind. I know what you were thinking about—what you are thinking now."
"I doubt it, Mr. Farwell."
"Yes, I do. You are wondering how I have the nerve to eat your food and smoke your tobacco when I'm here on this irrigation job."
It was her thought stripped naked. She made a little gesture, scarcely deprecatory. Why protest when he had guessed so exactly?
"I'm glad you don't feel called on to lie politely," said Farwell. "I'm pretty outspoken myself. I don't blame you at all. I merely want to point out that if I weren't on this job some one else would be. You see that. I'm just earning my living."
She was silent. He went on:
"I'm not apologizing, you understand, and I'm not saying anything about the rights of the ranchers or of my employers, one or the other. I don't care about either. I'm just concerned with my own business."
"That is to say, the railway's," Sheila commented.
"I'm trying to point out that I'm a hired man, with no personal interest. But of course I'll do what I'm paid to do—and more. I never saw the time I didn't give full value for every dollar of my pay."
"I don't question it," said Sheila.
"You think I'm talking too much about myself," he said quickly. "That's so. I'm sorry. You people have treated me well, no matter what you thought, and I appreciate it. I've enjoyed the evening very much. I wonder"—he hesitated for a moment—"I wonder if you'd mind my riding over here once in a while?"
"Of course not—if you care to come," Sheila replied. Intuitively she divined that she had interested him, and she guessed by his manner that it was not his custom to be interested in young women. Apart from the ranchers' grievance against the corporation he represented, she had no reason for refusal. She rather liked his downrightness. Casey Dunne had said that he was a bit of a bully, but not a bluff. His extreme frankness, while it amused her, seemed genuine.
"Thank you!" he said. "I don't flatter myself that you want me particularly, and I'm quite satisfied with the bare permission. I'm not entertaining or pleasant, and I know it. I've been busy all my life. No time for—for—well, no time for anything but work. But this little job isn't going to keep me more than half busy. I've done all the hard work of it now."
"I didn't know it was so nearly finished."
"I mean I've been over the ground and over the figures, and I know all that is to be done. Now it's merely a question of bossing a gang. A foreman could do that."
Sheila could find no fault with the last statement. Obviously it was a fact. But the tone more than the words was self-assertive, even arrogant. She was unreasonably annoyed.
"Naturally you consider yourself above foreman's work," she commented, with faint sarcasm.
"I don't consider myself above any work when it's up to me to do it or see it left undone," he replied. "I've held a riveter and driven spikes and shimmed up ties before now. But a concern that pays a first-class man to do third-class work is robbing itself. This is the last time I'll do it. That's how I feel about it."
Sheila was not accustomed to hear a man blow his own horn so frankly. The best men of her acquaintance—her father, Casey Dunne, Tom McHale, and others—seldom talked of themselves, never bragged, never mentioned their proficiency in anything. She had been brought up to regard a boaster and a bluff as synonymous. To her an egotist was also a bluff. His bad taste repelled her. And yet he did not seem to stress the announcement.
"A first-class man should not waste his time," she observed, b
ut to save her life she could not keep her tone free from sarcasm. He took up her meaning with extraordinary quickness.
"You think I might have let somebody else say that? Pshaw! I'm not mock-modest. I am a good man, and I'm paid accordingly. I want you to know it. I don't want you to take me for a poor devil of a line runner."
"What on earth does it matter what I take you for?" said Sheila. "I don't care whether you have a hundred or a thousand a month. What difference does it make to me?"
"None—but it makes a whole lot to me," said Farwell. "I'm interested in my profession. I want to get to the top of it. I'm halfway up, and time counts. And then to be sent down here on this rotten job! Pah! it makes me sick."
"I'm glad to hear you admit that it's rotten," said Sheila. "It's outrageous—a straight steal."
He stared at her a moment, laughed, and shook his head.
"You don't understand me. It's rotten from my standpoint—too trivial to waste time on."
"It's rotten from our standpoint. Can't you get away from your supreme self for a moment? Can't you appreciate what it means to us?"
"I know exactly what it means, but I can't help it. You know—but you can't help it. What are you going to do, anyway?"
"I don't know," she admitted, thinking of her conversation with Casey Dunne.
"You're sure you don't? We heard rumours—I may as well tell you—that the ranchers were prepared to make trouble for us."
"Then you've heard more than I have."
He eyed her a moment in silence. She returned his glance unwaveringly.
"I'm glad to know it," he said at length. "I don't want a row. Now, you people here—on this ranch—why don't you sell and get out?"
She thought it brutally put. "In the first place, we don't want to sell out. And in the next place who would buy?"
"That's so," he said. "I guess you wouldn't find many buyers. Still, if you got the chance——"
Whatever he was about to say was lost in a clamour of wheels and hoofs. Donald McCrae appeared in a buckboard drawn by a light team which he was holding with difficulty. He pulled them to a momentary halt.
"Now, if you're ready, Mr. Farwell. Jump in quick. These little devils won't stand. They haven't had any work for a week. All set? G'lang, boys!"
They started with a rear and a furious rush that flung Farwell back against the seat. In two hundred yards McCrae had them steadied, hitting a gait that fairly ate up the miles.
Farwell sat silent, chewing an unlighted cigar, turning a new idea over and over in his mind. This idea was to arrange for the purchase of Talapus Ranch by the railway's land department. None knew better than he that the taking of their water would mean absolute ruin to the McCraes, as it did to others. For the others he cared nothing. But he told himself that he owed something to the McCraes. They had treated him decently, like a white man. He was under a certain obligation, and here was a chance to return it many thousandfold. Also it would show the McCrae girl that he was no common employee, but a man of influence. He thought he had pull enough. Yes, when he came to think about it, it was a shame that people like the McCraes should lose everything. Nobody but the railway would buy their ranch, under the circumstances. But the railway could do so, and likely make a profit. That would be fair to everybody.
Once Farwell came to a conclusion he was prompt to act. He said, without preliminary:
"McCrae, what do you want for that ranch of yours?"
"It's not for sale now," McCrae replied.
"Everything's for sale at some price," Farwell commented. "What's a fair figure for it? I don't mean what you'll take—but what's it worth?"
McCrae considered.
"There's a thousand acres, and all good. There's no better land in the world. Then there's the buildings and fencing and stock and implements. Hard to say, nowadays. Why, raw land in little patches is selling at fancy figures. I should say as it stands—stocked and all—it's worth a hundred and fifty thousand of any man's money."
"If I can find a buyer at that figure will you take it?"
"No I'm not selling."
"Now, look here," said Farwell, "you say your place is worth one hundred and fifty thousand. That's with plenty of water for irrigation. Say it is. But what's it worth without water?"
"Without water," said McCrae slowly, "the land itself is worth about one dollar an acre. Twenty-five thousand would be an outside price for a crazy man to pay for Talapus."
"Exactly," said Farwell. "McCrae, you'd better let me try to find you a purchaser. For, if you hang on, just as sure as God made little red apples you'll be praying to Him to send you a crazy man."
McCrae was silent for a long minute, his eyes fixed on his horses' ears. "This is the first time," he said, "that it's been put up to me straight. I knew, of course—we all knew—but nobody had the nerve to come here and tell us so."
"Well, I have the nerve," said Farwell. "But I'm not saying it the way you think I am. I'm not talking as an official; I'm talking as a friend—as I'd like a man to talk to me if I were in your fix. I'm trying to get you to stand from under. Here's the situation, as plainly as I can put it: If you can't get water you will be forced to sell, and the best you can get is grazing-land prices. You know that. On the other hand, if you will sell now I think I can get you the price you named. Understand, I'm not doing this for a commission. I don't want one, and I wouldn't take one. I think the railway would buy on my recommendation if I put it strongly enough; and I'd do that for you people because—oh, well, just because I would. Now, there it is, McCrae, and it's up to you."
McCrae eased his team. His big shoulders seemed to droop, as if a heavy weight had been laid upon them. He fought his temptation in the darkness.
"No," he said at last, "I won't sell. But I'm obliged to you all the same. If the railway would buy us all out——"
"No!" snapped Farwell. "So that's why you won't sell. You think your friends will hold out, too. You've got a sort of a pool. It won't do you any good. The rest of them haven't the sand. I'll bet there isn't another man who would turn down such an offer as I've made to you. It will be each man for himself pretty soon."
"You're wrong," said McCrae. "We'll stay with each other. Casey Dunne had an offer from York. He didn't take it."
"Dunne is a fool!" rasped Farwell. Never guarded in speech, his instinctive hostility flared into hot words. "He won't get the chance again. He's one man we won't buy."
"I'm another," McCrae retorted swiftly. "Look here, Mr. Farwell, I was in this country when its only crop was buffalo hides and bad Indians. Land!—you couldn't give it away. I can show you a town with hotels and banks and paved streets and electric lights—a fine little town. Twenty-odd years ago I was offered the section that town now stands on, for a team and a two weeks' grubstake for a man and his wife. They wanted to get out, and they couldn't. I gave 'em the grub, and told 'em it was worth the price of it to me not to own the land. Yes, sir—and I meant it. I was that shortsighted. So were others. We thought the country would never fill up, just as we thought the buffalo would never be killed out, and we kept on drifting. When I woke up, the cheap lands were about gone. And then, ten years late, I made my grab for a piece of what was left. I hiked for this country that I knew ahead of everybody, and I picked out the best bunch of stuff there was in it, and I sat down to wait for the rush to catch up to me. Now it's caught me and the rest of us who came in early. And now you people tell me I've got to move off my reservation, and go away somewhere and begin again. I won't do it—I tell you I won't! And, what's more, don't you crowd me too hard—me and the rest of the boys—or there'll be hell a-popping right here. Now, you mind what I'm telling you."
He spoke deliberately, evenly, without raising his voice. His manner, even more than his words, expressed fixed determination. Farwell lifted his eyebrows, and puckered his lips in a silent whistle. His diplomacy was turning out badly, and he repressed an inclination to retort.
"Well, I'm sorry," he said. "I hoped we could fix
this up. Think it over, anyway."
"I've done my thinking."
"But, man, you're on the wrong side of the fence, and you know it. The railway is too strong for you. What's the sense of bucking it?"
"Not much, maybe. I guess you mean well, and I take it friendly, but this ain't a question of sense."
"Of what, then?"
"Of a man's right to keep what he's worked for, and to live on the land he owns." McCrae replied. "That's the way I look at it."
It was the old question once more—older than the country, older than the Mayflower, older than the Great Charter wrested from John the King——the eternal battle between the common man and class or privilege. Here, in the new country, in place of the divine right of kings and the hereditary power of nobles, was substituted the might of money, the power of the corporate body, itself a creation of law, overriding the power which created it.
"Well, it's your funeral," said Farwell. "I can't help my job, just remember that. And of course I've got to earn my pay."
"Sure," said McCrae; "sure, I understand."
They were at the camp. Farwell jumped out inviting McCrae to put his team up and come to his quarters. McCrae refused. It was late; he must be getting back.
"Just as you say," said Farwell. "I'm coming over to your ranch now and then, if you don't mind."
"Come along," said McCrae. "Latchstring's always out. You, Jeff; you, Dinny! G'lang, boys!"
The buckboard leaped to the sudden plunge of the little road team. Farwell stood for a moment listening to the diminishing drum roll of hoofs, whir of spokes, and clank of axles in their boxes.
"The blamed fool!" he thought. "Well, I gave him his chance. But it's going to be hard on his folks." He shook his head. "Yes, it will be pretty hard on his wife and the girl—what do they call her? Sheila. Nice name that—odd! Sheila!" He repeated the name aloud.
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