Land Grab: Jim Hatfield takes a hand in a range war! (Prologue Western)
Page 14
He paused, gazing out of the window with regretful eyes.
“Yes, Haynes was an engineer, all right, and a plumb smart one, and it’s a shame to see a man like that start riding a crooked trail. Quimby admitted to us that Haynes figured out just what effect it would have on the valley to cut all that timber off the south slope of the mountain and not replant, and that indicated a knowledge of geology and petrology — the science of rocks. Yes, he knew the final result would be that the valley would become worthless for cattle raising. He was patient and sure of winning.”
“But Flint coming along threw him off stride,” old Clyde observed shrewdly.
“Exactly. He began to see that he would have a competitor when it came to bidding in the valley. So he began trying to get Flint and the cowmen plumb hostile to each other. Of course, if he had gotten by with some of the things he tried — like cashin’ in Rance and making the ranchers believe Flint’s settlers were responsible, there would never have been any dealing between Flint and the cowmen. Haynes figured he would step in and buy the valley when the right moment came. He cut his timber fast and amassed ready cash with that in mind. When he saw Flint was liable to get ahead of him and buy the valley, he tried to ruin Flint by burning him out.”
“But why couldn’t he just step in and overbid Mr. Flint when the time came?” young Rance asked.
“Because,” Hatfield smiled, “that would’ve right off made everybody suspicious. Why would he want the valley bad enough to try and outbid Flint for it? An investigation might turn up the very thing he didn’t want suspected, the presence of oil under that valley. That’s why he tried so hard to stop Cranley from drilling a water well. He was scared Cranley would tap oil. And he ended up by tapping it himself when he planted dynamite in the well to cave in the bore and stop the drilling for good.”
Hatfield chuckled, his eyes retrospective.
“That’s an example of how even a good engineer will slip some times,” he said. “Haynes undoubtedly thought he had figured just how deep a bore would be necessary to tap the oil. If he had taken that deep and wide hollow near the dry spring into consideration, he would’ve revised his calculations.”
“How’s that?” asked Flint.
“That hollow, there for no apparent reason, shows subsidence in that particular spot,” Hatfield explained. “Subsidence in a section where a fluid substance, such as an oil pool, underlies the upper strata means that there will be a corresponding upward bulge nearby — liquid of little compression. Haynes overlooked that.”
Justin Flint stared hard at Hatfield.
“But a really smart engineer didn’t,” he observed with meaning.
Hatfield smiled, and refrained from comment.
“Yes, Haynes, like most owlhoots, slipped up on a number of little things that didn’t seem important on the surface,” he concluded. “Like arming that breed drygulcher with a thirty-thirty rifle, a gun that was almost certain to have been brought in from the east. Then Lem Hawkins was shot with a forty-four, which pretty well showed some local folks were in on the deal, too. They were Pack and Dennis, whom Haynes had hired out to Cranley.
“Then Haynes told me he hailed from Vermont. But he didn’t talk like any New Englander I ever held a gab with. And when a man goes out of his way to pretend he comes from some other section of the country than the one to which he really belongs, he’ll bear watching. Little things, but they add up. Like getting sort of friendly with Verna and learning of her interest in Rance, something that played right into his hands and gave him a chance to drygulch Rance, but likewise gave me another clue.
“And when I first hit the valley, with an owlhoot’s habit of looking on everybody else as crooked, too, he got busy trying to rub me out, like having Pack lay for me in Doc McChesney’s office that night, figuring I was another cold decker trying to horn in on his game, maybe. And by so doing began tipping his hand right away.
“Then when he had the drilling rig watchman murdered, it gave me what I needed, a specific charge to hang on him.”
He smiled whimsically at his listeners and stood up, stretching his long arms above his head.
“Well, I reckon that’s about all,” he said. “I’ll be riding. Captain Bill will have another little chore ready for me by the time I get back.”
“And if you’re around this way again, be sure and drop in on us,” Justin Flint urged. Clyde Cranley nodded hearty assent.
“I’ll try and get back to see the grandchildren,” Hatfield chuckled.
“Do that,” urged Cranley. “I’d like to have you act as godfather to my first grandson.”
“Granddaughter, you mean,” corrected Flint.
“Granddaughter, hell!” snorted old Clyde. “It’s goin’ to be a boy.”
Flint leaned forward and pounded the table.
“Now, listen,” he began belligerently.
“Shut up!” Hatfield told them both. “What have you two old coots got to do with it? Your day is past. All you can do is sit in the Op’ry seat and spit into the corral and gabble — ‘now when I was young’ — ”
The two oldsters subsided with sheepish grins. Hatfield smiled at Verna, who was blushing hotly.
“Try and make ‘em both happy, ma’am,” he suggested. “Adios!”
They watched him ride away, tall and graceful atop his great golden horse.
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Copyright © 1953 by Leslie Scott.
Copyright © renewed 1981 by Lily Scott. Published by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency. All rights reserved.
Cover images ©Time Tunnel/The Wild West
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5549-4
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5549-7
Table of Contents
Title Page
Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
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