by Janet Dailey
“In New York. That’s where we live—used to live,” she corrected herself, excitement beaming in her face, thoroughly enchanting Webb with her eagerness for life.
“What are you doing here?” He struggled to break the crazy spell of her, forcing his gaze to the scattered clusters of the train’s former passengers.
“This is where we’re going to start a new life.” There was an absolute certainty in her voice that it would also be a better life. His glance slid back to study her profile as she looked expectantly at the surrounding plains, as if Utopia were just over the next rise. “We’re going to have our own land and grow acres and acres of wheat.”
“If that’s what you want to grow, you belong in Kansas. This land is only good for grass and cattle,” Webb stated grimly.
Her attention was fully on him once again, a determination he hadn’t seen before suddenly surfacing in her clean features. There was even a shade of defiance glittering in her eyes. “That isn’t what Mr. Wessel says.”
He tipped his head to one side. “And who is Mr. Wessel?”
“That’s him over there.” She indicated the man in the white suit. “He’s a locater. He’s going to show us the best sections of unclaimed land so we can choose which one we want to file on.”
It wasn’t difficult to imagine the promises of riches the man had made to these ignorant and inexperienced settlers.
“He’s going to find land for all these people on the train with you?” Webb guessed.
“Yes,” she stated with a challenging tilt of her chin. “All of us signed up with him because he’s the only one who knows where this land is located. No one else has seen it but him. We’re going to be the first.”
“Besides the ranchers and the cowboys who have traveled every inch of this country.” He lightly mocked the boasting claim that originated with the white-suited Mr. Wessel. “I suppose he’s told you that all you have to do is plow up the sod, sow some wheat, and you’ll be rich overnight. It isn’t that easy.”
“Nothing worth having is ever easy.” She seemed to be speaking from experience rather than simply mouthing a wise phrase. “We’ve read all the brochures the railroad printed, telling about richness of this soil and the dryland method of growing wheat. The railroad has checked into it and they have evidence that proves it can be successfully grown.”
Webb didn’t argue that point, because it couldn’t be disputed. Considering his father’s steadfast insistence to the contrary, it was a fact that troubled him. Wheat had been harvested in profitable quantities. Most of Webb’s opposition to turning this ranchland into wheat farms came from an ingrained resistance to any change of the present lifestyle that focused on cattle and cowponies.
“Lillian!” A male voice called out the name and the auburn-haired girl turned in response. Webb wasn’t quick enough to pick out the man who had called to her from the group of settlers gathering around the wagons.
Feeling her glance return to him, he looked back. There was a troubled quality about her expression, a kind of resigned regret, but it wasn’t quite that, either. Then it was gone, replaced by a polite but friendly smile.
“I have to go now. They’re loading up the wagons to take us out to the new land,” she explained unnecessarily.
“I hope you and your family find what you’re looking for,” Webb offered. “Either here or someplace else,” There was a barely formed thought that he didn’t want this to be the last time he saw her as his fingertips gripped the front brim of his hat.
“Yes.” It was a preoccupied reply.
Drawing her shawl up around her shoulder, the young woman named Lillian turned to rejoin the others. At first, she moved sedately away from him, but her steps quickened when she drew closer to the group.
Webb took the tobacco sack out of his vest pocket and used the business of building a cigarette to screen his interest in the girl with the dark chestnut hair. She approached an older man in an ill-fitting suit and spoke to him. He was tall, a slight stoop to his shoulders as if they carried the weight of many hard, lean years. His gaunt features were mostly covered by a hoary white beard, silver tufts of hair poking out from the flat-brimmed black hat on his head. Yet he looked rock-solid, a laborer rather than a farmer, using the muscles in his back and the sweat of his brow to eke out a living for himself and his family.
Raking a match head across the rough denim material covering the back of his thigh, he cupped the flame to his cigarette and dragged the smoke into his mouth. He was shaking out the match as Nate Moore approached him, coming from the direction of the depot.
“Our stuffs in.” Nate confirmed the arrival of the ranch’s shipment. His glance strayed to the motley assortment of travelers climbing into the converted wagons. “As soon as they get gone, we can drive the buckboard over and get it loaded up.”
“Good.” Webb pinched the match head between his fingers to be sure it was cool before tossing it into the grass near the cinder track.
What few belongings the new settlers had brought with them were stacked on the depot platform along with the other freight. After they’d selected a homesite, they’d be back to collect it. The baggage was a clear indication of their intention to stay, and a desperate statement that they had no home to go back to, their roots pulled up to be replanted in Montana soil.
“Did ya ever see such a ragtag bunch?” Nate remarked, following the direction of Webb’s interest. “The station agent says they’re just the beginning. The railroad’s cut the fares coming from the East down to next to nothin’. But they’re only sellin’ one-way tickets.
It wouldn’t surprise me if some of those folks didn’t sell nearly everything they owned just to raise the price of the fare. They’ll be lucky if they got a dollar in their pockets.”
“What do they need money for?” Webb countered with wry cynicism. “The land is free.” He mocked the ignorance of the settlers who had arrived here with a pocketful of dreams and little else.
As the wagons loaded with eager settlers pulled away from the train station, their modern-day Moses was at the head, leading the oppressed poor to their so-called Promised Land.
“Let’s get that buckboard over by the depot.” Nate pushed his lanky frame into motion, but Webb dawdled a second. His gaze traveled after the rumbling wagons, trying unsuccessfully to pick out the one the young woman had climbed in.
When the freight was secured in the back of the wagon, they headed back to the main part of town. The general store had the distinction of being the original building in the small settlement. It bore little resemblance to its log-cabin beginnings, especially with the false front dressing up the entrance side. Although it still bore the name of Fat Frank Fitzsimmons, his widow had sold it several years ago when Frank died and she decided to go back east where she had family. The new owner was a man named Ollie Ellis, middle-aged and aggressive in seeking trade with the ranchers in the area. He believed in serving his customers, anxious to discover their needs and fill them so they wouldn’t take their business elsewhere. Few ranchers did.
The Triple C Ranch represented a big account to the merchant. When Webb walked into the store, Ollie Ellis came out from behind the counter to greet him. He was a stocky man with a shock of sandy hair, businesslike in his attitude, “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Calder.” Even though Webb was the son of the owner, Ollie always addressed with the respect he felt was the due of the heir apparent to the Calder Cattle Company. “We’ve been having a fine spring, haven’t we?”
“The weather has held nicely so far,” Webb agreed, resenting that he was acknowledged and Nate was relegated to second place in importance.
“Hello, Nate.” Ollie was freer with the cowboy, a back-slapping quality to his greeting. “How’s the tobacco holding out?”
“I’ll be needing another can,” Nate replied, not seeing the slight Webb saw.
Taking the list of needed supplies from his pocket, Webb handed it to the store’s proprietor. The man looked it over wi
thout comment as he walked behind the counter.
“Did you happen to notice those wagons filled with new settlers that went through town just before you came into the store?” the merchant asked as he began filling the order.
“We were down at the station when they came in.” Nate nodded in reply. “They are figurin’ to file homestead claims hereabouts.”
“That’s what I heard. Rumor is they are going to start streaming to this area.” Ollie Ellis looked skeptical. “It’s for sure the railroad is out there beating the drums to bring them in.” Aware of where his loyalties belonged, he quickly made certain Webb was informed of them, too. “’Course, I don’t put much stock in all that talk about turning this land into one giant wheat-field. This has always been grazing land for cattle or sheep—and before that, for buffalo and antelope.”
“That’s what they said before the farmers started fencing in Kansas and stopping all the trail herds.” Some of that Webb remembered from his childhood, “Dodge City is about as tame as towns come now, filled with farmers on market day instead of cowboys blowing off steam after months on the trail.”
“That’s true,” the merchant conceded. “But I don’t see farmers taking over Blue Moon and turning it into a farm town. Not that I wouldn’t appreciate their business, you understand. New customers are always welcome in my store, but a man just doesn’t forget his regular customers. That’s like biting the hand that feeds you.”
“This bunch doesn’t look like it came with much money in its pockets,” Nate remarked. “So I don’t think they’ll be doin’ too much buyin’ for a while.”
“I noticed there are a couple of new buildings in town,” Webb said.
“A guy named Wessel owns one of them. He’s a land speculator, from what I’ve heard,” Ollie replied. “He dresses real flashy—wears a white suit. He tells me that a bank is going into the second building.”
“A bank? In Blue Moon?” Nate looked more than skeptical.
“That’s what he said,” the merchant confirmed, and smiled crookedly. “If those new settlers are as broke as you think, they’ll need a bank to loan them money for seed.”
“The land’s free.” Nate looked at Webb as he spoke, recalling the phrase he’d used at the station. “But they’ll have to sell their souls to grow anything on it.”
A humorless smite of agreement flashed across Webb’s mouth. “While you fill our order, Ollie, Nate and I are going over to the saloon.”
“I’ll have it ready for you in less than an hour,” Ellis promised.
“There’s no rush.” He knew they wouldn’t be in any hurry to leave the saloon to make the long ride back to the ranch.
Up until ten years ago, the saloon had been a small room off the general store. Then the railroad had put a spur into Blue Moon and Sonny Drake had arrived in town and built a roadhouse, complete with a bar to lure trade into his establishment. Competition and an expanding merchandise business had combined to finally close the saloon side of the general store.
Like Ollie Ellis, Sonny Drake catered to the local ranchers and their hands, happy to serve them whiskey, then rent them a room to sleep it off when they had too much. The separate building with a bar on the first floor and a half-dozen small sleeping rooms upstairs also had the added enticement of being only a dozen yards from a log shack located in back of the building where Miss Fannie Owens quietly plied her ancient profession.
In the early noon hour, there was only one customer leaning against the long bar made out of hand-carved wood, imported all the way from Chicago. When Webb and Nate walked into the local roadhouse, the interior seemed dark after the bright sunlight. Sonny was sweeping the floor, most of the chairs still turned upside down on the tables, with the exception of one. A curly-haired man had set the chairs upright and sat reclining in one with his boots propped atop the table. A whiskey bottle was on the table within reach to fill the shot glass he was nursing.
His gaze lifted from its study of the contents when he heard the combined jingle of spurs. The hard, brooding look that had been on his face vanished when he recognized Webb. A smile broke across his face, giving it the good-natured expression Webb usually associated with Doyle Pettit. Doyle was a couple of years younger than Webb, the son of a rancher. Only Doyle wasn’t just the son of a rancher anymore. His father, Tom Pettit, the owner of the TeePee Ranch, had died three years ago, and it now belonged to Doyle.
“Hey, Webb, Nate. Come on over here and join me!” He waved them to his table. “It’s been a helluva long time since I’ve seen you fellas! Sonny,” he called to the husky owner/bartender. “Bring these boys some glasses.”
“What are you doing in town?” Nate pulled out a chair and slumped into it, resting his arms on the table.
“I’m drinking to the end of the cattle business.” Doyle lifted his glass in a mock toast, then downed the drink.
It was fairly common knowledge among the ranch community that the TeePee had been going steadily downhill since Doyle had taken charge. It was a combination of poor management and a declining cattle market.
“You aren’t thinking of selling out?” Webb raised an eyebrow, surprised that Doyle might be quitting. It was good land, the best next to the Triple C.
“Hell, if the cattle prices get any lower, I won’t have a choice.” Momentarily disgruntled by the implied failure, Doyle Pettit refilled his glass, then poured whiskey into the two that Sonny set on the table.
“They’ll go up. They always do.” It was just a matter of riding out a poor market and paring down expenses.
“I laid off most of my hands yesterday.” Doyle sighed. “I just barely met the spring roundup payroll. I’ll let them all go if I have to, but I’m going to hang on to that land. It’s going to be a gold mine.”
“No cowboys mean no cattle, so I don’t know where you’re going to find that gold,” Nate said dryly.
“Gold as in wheat.” A bright gleam leaped into his hazel eyes. “Wheat means land. And, Lord knows, I own enough of it.”
“You don’t really believe a fella can grow wheat out here?” Nate scoffed, eyeing the rancher as if he’d lost all his wits.
“Hell, no, I don’t believe it, but those drylanders do.” Doyle laughed. “When all that free land gets snapped up, they’re gonna start buying it.”
There was sense in what Doyle was saying, but Webb couldn’t approve of the plan. The idea of breaking the TeePee up into wheat farms seemed a traitorous act for a cattleman. He kept his silence only because Doyle had been a good friend for so many years.
A lull followed that was silently critical. Swinging his feet off the table, Doyle sat up and leaned forward, anxious to convince his friends of the wisdom of his plan.
“It’s the smart move,” he insisted. “Those suckers coming out here are hungry for land. Nothing is going to stop them. Now that they have started, it’s going to be like a flood. You just watch; the land values around here are going to shoot sky-high. It isn’t going to matter anymore how many head of cattle you own. It will be how much land. Anyone who tries to stick with ranching is a fool. A man can get rich with land.”
“You overlooked something.” Nate shifted in his chair. “Every boom has a bust. When those farmers can’t grow a crop to meet their notes, they’re going to lose their land.”
“That’s the beauty of it.” A grin spread his mouth wide. “Think of how many times a man can sell the same chunk of land!”
“It don’t sound right to me.” Nate shook his head.
“It’s no different than horse-trading,” Doyle declared. “If the buyer can’t see for himself that the horse is spavined, then he deserves what he gets.”
It was apparent that Doyle considered the comparison an adequate justification. Webb also realized that Doyle had covered every angle. This wasn’t just idle talk to be bandied around the table and forgotten. It was going to be followed through.
“What do you say about all this, Webb?” Nate turned to him, seeking vocal support
for his opposition.
“I say it’s a damned good thing old Tom Pettit is dead and in his grave.” There was a certain stiffness in his movements as he took a quick swallow of whiskey.
Doyle reddened slightly, his hazel eyes narrowing. “My pa was just like yours is, Webb. All he knew was cattle and that ranch. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t any world outside the boundaries of his range. That’s old-time thinking. He put nearly thirty years of his life into that ranch. When he died, he left me a bunch of cattle, but no money-—not a dime after thirty years. That’s what you’re going to get, Webb—cattle and all the headaches that go with them. I’m not going to waste my life the way my pa did.”
“A man’s gotta do what he thinks is right,” Webb murmured, but Doyle’s words had made him uneasy. This time it had nothing to do with being the son of Chase Benteen Calder and the future owner of the Triple C. It was something else that gnawed at him. Some new thought that hadn’t occurred to him before.
“Your pa left you a good piece of ranchland,” Nate reminded him.
“And I’m going to take that land and turn it into money,” Doyle stated, less defensive. “I’ve been talking to Harve Wessel about maybe setting up a partnership. Have you met him yet?” He shot a glance at Webb.
“I’ve only seen him.”
“That guy could sell beaded moccasins to reservation Indians,” he declared with a grin. “We’ve been considering buying up some land for speculation. Since his heart attack last winter, Evan Banks is talking about selling the old Ten Bar spread. Harve is sure we can convince the bank to loan us the money to buy it.”
“Instead of being cattle-poor, you’re going to be land-poor,” Webb warned.
“I’ll be land-rich,” he corrected and let his glance swing back to Webb. “If your pa was smart, he’d sell off at least some of his land. The days of the big cattle ranches are over. He’d better be thinking about trimming down the size of the Triple C, or he’ll find himself losing it all.”
More than an hour went by before Webb and Nate took their leave of Doyle and left the saloon to get a bite to eat. They paused outside the door, studying the one-street town. Nate hitched his pants higher on his hips and darted a squinting glance at his friend.