The Homesteaders

by Stead, Robert J C

  The last touch was a stroke of diplomacy. The suggestion that Harris should pay part of his expenses swept away Riles' bad humour, and he agreed to go on the date originally planned, and get what he called "a bede on the easy money," while Harris completed his arrangements at home.

  He was to get "a bede on the easy money" in a manner which Harris little suspected.

  ***

  When Harris returned home the next forenoon he found that Mary had already left for Plainville. He sat down and tried to think, but the house was very quiet, and the silence oppressed him…He looked at his watch, and concluded he had still time to reach Plainville before the train would leave. But that would mean surrender, and surrender meant weakness.

  CHAPTER XII

  A WHIFF OF NEW ATMOSPHERE

  Riles found the journey westward a tiresome affair. His was a soul devoid of enthusiasm over Nature's wealth or magnitude, and the view of the endless prairie excited in him no emotion other than a certain vague covetousness. It was his first long rail journey in over twenty years, but his thoughts were on the cost of travel rather than on the wonderful strides which had been made in its comfort and convenience. Riles indulged in no such luxuries as sleeping-car berths or meals served in the diner, and two nights in a crowded day-coach, with such hasty meals as could be bought for a quarter at wayside stations, made the journey a somewhat exhausting one. Back in the observation car, sleek commercial travellers, well groomed and well dressed and enveloped in comfortable self-satisfaction, gravely discussed politics, business or real estate, or exchanged the latest titbits of wit accumulated in their travels. Riles probably could have bought and paid for the worldly possessions of the whole group, and have still a comfortable balance in the bank. But a sleeper berth cost the price of two bushels of wheat, and even in a good year Riles' crop seldom exceeded ten thousand bushels.

  As fate would have it, Riles selected as the base of his homestead operations the very foothill town to which Beulah Harris had come a few weeks before. He sought out the cheapest hotel, and having thrown his few belongings on the bed, betook himself to the bar-room, which seemed the chief centre of activity, not only of the hotel itself, but of the little town. Men were, lined three deep against the capacious bar, shouting, swearing, and singing, and spending their money with an abandon not to be found in millionaires. Riles was no great student of human nature; he had a keener eye for a horse than a fellow-man, but the motley crowd interested and, in a certain way, amused him. Land-seekers, some in overalls and flannel shirts, some in ready-mades with dirty celluloid collars and cheap, gaudy ties—big, powerful men with the muscles and manners of the horse—and others, lighter of frame, who apparently made an easier and a better living by the employment of their brains; cowboys in schaps and sun-burn and silk handkerchiefs; ranchers, stately English and French stock, gentlemen still five thousand miles from the place of their breeding; lumbermen and river-drivers, iron bodies set with quick, combative intellects; guides, locaters, freighters, land dealers, gamblers, sharks, and hangers-on wove back and forth plying the shuttle from which the fabric of a new nation must be wrought.

  Riles debated with himself whether the occasion justified the expenditure of ten cents for a drink when a hand was placed on his shoulder, and a voice said, "Have one with me, neighbour." He found himself addressed by a man of about his own age, shorter and somewhat lighter of frame and with a growing hint of corpulence. The stranger wore a good pepper-and-salt suit, and the stone on his finger danced like real diamond.

  "Don't mind if I do, since y' mention it," said Riles, with an attempted smile which his bad eye rendered futile. One of the bartenders put something in his glass which cut all the way down, but Riles speedily forgot it in a more exciting incident. The man in the pepper-and-salt suit had laid half a dollar on the bar, and no change came back. Riles congratulated himself on his own narrow escape.

  "You'll be looking for land?" inquired the stranger, when both were breathing easily again.

  "Well, maybe I am, and maybe I ain't," said Riles guardedly. He had heard something of the ways of confidence men, and was determined not to be taken for an easy mark.

  "A man of some judgment, I see," said his new acquaintance, quite unabashed. "Well, I don't blame you for keeping your own counsel. The rush of people and money into the West has brought all kinds of floaters in its train. Why"—with growing confidence—"the other night—"

  What happened the other night remained untold, for at that moment came a clattering of horse's hoofs on the wooden walk at the door, and a moment later a gaily arrayed cowboy rode right into the room, his horse prancing and bodying from side to side to clear the crowd away, then facing up to the bar as though it were his manger. Riles expected trouble, and was surprised when the feat evoked a cheer from the bystanders.

  "That's Horseback George," said the man in the pepper-and-salt. "They say he sleeps on his horse. Rides right into a bar as a matter of course, and maybe shoots a few bottles off the shelves as a demonstration before he goes out. But he always settles, and nobody mind his little peculiarities."

  Horseback George treated himself twice, proffering each glass to his horse before touching it himself, and stroking with one hand the animal's ears as he raised the liquor to his lips. Then he threw a bill at the bar-tender and, with a wild whoop, slapped the horse's legs with his hat, and dashed at a gallop out of the bar-room and away down the trail.

  The stranger was about to resume his conversation when a big fellow near by shouted in a loud, raucous voice, "Come, pard, set 'er up. Who's drinkin with me?"

  No one answered, and the big man looked about the crowd with a deepening scowl.

  "So you're not drinkin'?" he said. "Fill two glasses, pard, and set 'em right there." He turned his back to the bar, resting his elbows on it, and surveyed the crowd contemptuously, meanwhile chewing a mouthful of tobacco with a rapid, swinging motion of the jaw.

  "Guess you fellows don't know who I am," he said. "I—"

  "No, and don't give a damn," said a lumberjack near by.

  "Well, you will before you're through. You're goin' t' drink with me, an' you'll drink with both hands on the glass. Come up an' take your med'cine." As he spoke his hand rested on his hip-pocket.

  The head bar-tender poked him in the ribs. "No gun play here," he said. "You're not in Montana now."

  "I guess I know where I am," he retorted. "An' what d'ye think I pack a gun for? T' tell the time by? This (not printable) is goin' t' drink with me, or I'll fix him so's you c'n see through him both ways." With the word he whipped out a revolver and fired into the floor at the lumber-jack's feet, while a considerable part of the crowd scurried for the door.

  "Put up your gun, you (equally unprintable)," shouted the lumber-jack, throwing his hat on the floor, "and I'll crack your slats quicker'n you can count 'em."

  "It's all right, Pete," said the bar-tender, addressing the lumber-jack. "You can lick him hands down, but that won't pay the bills if you get in the road of a bullet. Now you," turning to the other, "stow that artillery, an' stow it quick, or I'll call the Mounted Police."

  For answer the stranger took a handful of tobacco from his mouth, and with a swing of his arm plastered it over the mirror behind the bar. "That for the Mounted Police," he said. "Now there's goin' t' be some drinkin' or some shootin', an' maybe a little o' both." He ploughed the floor with another bullet, and the crowd again visibly thinned away. Riles had backed into a corner; the man in the pepper-and-salt suit had disappeared.

  Having no weapon, the lumber-jack kept his distance, but if epithets could kill his bullying provoker would have been carried out a corpse. The man with the revolver, on the other hand, seemed taking his time, playing with his victim, like a wild beast sure of his prey.

  Suddenly there was another stir about the door, and a young fellow in scarlet tunic and yellow-striped riding-pants walked briskly in. His lithe figure, his clean boyish face, his military alertness, were in striking contrast to t
he ambling, carelessly-dressed crowd. He had taken in the situation at a glance, and walked, neither faster nor slower, direct to the desperado. The latter found himself confronted by an unexpected dilemma. If he took his gun off the lumber-jack to cover the policeman he knew perfectly well that the promised slat-cracking process would begin immediately. If the policeman had only stood at the door and ordered him to put up his gun, or parleyed, or thought of his skin as a policeman should, he would have had time to plan his campaign. But this boy in scarlet was a revelation of something new in policemen. It was only eight steps from the door to where the outlaw stood, and those eight steps at parade pace occupied about three seconds. The gentleman from Montana was quick enough with his gun, but not particularly nimble in intellect, and he never faced a situation quite like this before. What was this policeman going to do, anyway? Would he never stop and deliver his ultimatum? He had not even drawn his gun!

  By this time the policeman was beside him. He did not seize him, nor shout at him, nor menace him in any way, yet somewhere in his manner and bearing was a sense of irresistible power.

  "Perhaps you don't know that it's against the law to flourish a revolver in this country," he said. "Better let me keep it for you until you are leaving town."

  "Against the law!" said the ruffian, now recovering himself. "That's a good one. Why, ever'thin' I've done for twenty years has been against the law. I cracked up the law for chicken-grit years ago."

  "Not the Canadian law," said the Mounted Policeman. "You'll only offend against it once, and it won't be the law that gets cracked."

  "Thas' so?" sneered the other. "Then what'll happen?"

  "I'll arrest you."

  "You? I could eat you in three bites. I can lick you with one hand."

  "How many like me do you think you could lick?" asked the policeman, with imperturbable composure.

  The man from Montana had removed his eye from the lumber-jack, who was now dancing about in menacing attitudes.

  "Forget it, Pete," ordered the policeman. "Now, how many like me can you lick?"

  "About six," said the other, speaking with much deliberation.

  "All right," said Sergeant Grey. "Then my chief would send seven. Now, will you come with me or wait for the seven? By the way," he continued, "the lock-up is a sort of beastly place to stow a man, especially when he's visiting the country for the first time. I think I'll let you sleep here, on your promise to appear in court at ten to-morrow morning. Let me help you to your room. But first, I'll have to trouble you for your gun."

  "What if I clear out through the night?"

  "You won't—not very far." There was a metallic ring in the last words that penetrated the shell of the man who had made a business of breaking law for twenty years, and he finally handed over his revolver.

  "Search me if I know why I do it," he said, turning to the bar-tender. "I could eat that kid in three bites."

  "Yes," said the man behind. "But you couldn't digest the whole British Empire, and that's what you've got to do if you start nibbling on any part of it. Besides, he mightn't make as easy chewin' as you think. You'd find him more brisket than sirloin when you get your teeth into him. I've seen him throw an' handcuff a bigger man than you right in this room, an' never turn a hair in doin' it. An' take it from me, stranger, what he says about sendin' seven if the job's too big for six is gospel, an' the quicker you get that in your block the safer your hide'll be in Canada."

  Sharp at ten the next morning the man who made a business of breaking the law appeared before the magistrate, paid a fine of fifty dollars, and surrendered his weapon to the King's officers for good. When he returned to the hotel and demanded his bill for the night's lodging he was surprised to learn he had none.

  "Sergeant Grey settled for you," said the clerk with a faint smile.

  "Said you were his guest last night."

  It was the first time in a long experience that he had found that law could be rigorous and yet absolutely just. It upset his whole crude philosophy of his relation to society and the State, and stretched before him the straight and easy road to citizenship.

  To return to the scene of the night before. When the bar-room had settled down to normal, and no one showed a disposition to do any general buying, Riles betook himself to his room. He had just got into bed when a knock came at the door.

  "Who's there?" he demanded.

  "Gen'l'man to see Mr. Riles," said the porter.

  "Well, shoot 'im in. The door ain't locked," said Riles, in considerable wonderment as to who his visitor might be.

  The door opened, and a well-dressed man of average height, with carefully combed hair and clean-shaven face, save for a light moustache, stood revealed in the uncertain glow of the match with which Riles was endeavouring to find his lamp. His visitor was a man of twenty-eight or thirty years, with clear eyes and well-cut face, and yet with some subtle quality in his expression that implied that under his fair exterior lay a deep, cunning, and that he was a man not to be trusted in matters where his own interests might be at stake.

  "Hello, Hiram," he said quietly. "You didn't figure on seeing me here, did you?"

  At first glance Riles did not recognize him, and he raised the oil lamp to turn the light better on the stranger's face.

  "Well, if it ain't Gardiner!" he exclaimed. "Where in Sam Hill did you come from?"

  "It's a big country, Hiram," he said with a touch of bitterness, "but not big enough for a fellow to lose himself in." He sat down on the side of the bed and lit a cigar, tendering another to Riles, and the two men puffed in silence for a few minutes.

  "Yes, I've hit a lot of trail since I saw you last," he continued, "and when you're in the shadow of the Rockies you're a long piece from Plainville. How's the old burg? Dead as ever?"

  "About the same," said Riles. "You don't seem t' be wastin' no love on it."

  "Nothing to speak of," said the other, slowly flicking the ash from his cigar. "Nothing to speak of. You know I got a raw deal there, Hiram, and it ain't likely I'd get enthusiastic over it."

  "Well, when a fellow gets up against the law an' has t' clear out," said Riles, with great candour, "that's his funeral. As for me, I ain't got nothin' agen Plainville. You made a little money there yourself, didn't you?"

  The younger man leaned back and slowly puffed circles of fragrant smoke at the ceiling, while Riles surveyed him from the head of the bed. He had been a business man in Plainville, but had become involved in a theft case, and had managed to escape from the town simply because a fellow-man whom he had wronged did not trouble to press the matter against him. Riles' acquaintance with him had not been close; except in a business way they had moved in other circles, and he was surprised and a little puzzled that Gardiner should find him out on the first night of his presence in the New West.

  Gardiner showed no disposition to reopen the conversation about

  Plainville, so at last Riles asked, "How d'you know I was here?"

  "Saw your scrawl on the register," he said, "and I've seen it too often on wheat tickets to forget it. Thought I'd look you up. Maybe can be of some service to you here. What are you chasing—more land?"

  "Well, I won't say that, exactly, but I kind o' thought I'd come out and look over some of this stuff the Gover'ment's givin' away, before the furriners gets it all. Guess if there's any-thin' free goin' us men that pioneered one province should get it on the next."

  "You don't learn anything, Riles, do you? You don't know anything more about making money than you did twenty years ago."

  "Well, maybe I don't, and maybe I do, but I can pay my way, an' I can go back t' Plainville when I like, too."

  "Don't get hot," said Gardiner, with unshaken composure. "I'm just trying to put you wise to yourself. Don't make any difference to me if you spend your whole life sod-busting; it's your life—spend it any way you like. But it's only men who don't know any better that go on to the land nowadays. It's a lot easier to make a living out of farmers than out of farming
."

  "Well, p'r'aps so, but that's more in your line. I never—"

  "That's just what I say—you never learn. Now look at me. I ain't wearing my last suit, nor spending my last dollar, either, and I haven't done what you'd call a day's work since I came West. There's other things so much easier to do."

  "Meanin'?—"

  "Oh, lots of things. Remittance men, for instance. These woods are full of them. Chaps that never could track straight in the old ruts, and were sent out here where there aren't any ruts at all. They're not a bad bunch; brought up like gentlemen, most of 'em; play the piano and talk in three or four languages, and all that kind of stuff, but they're simply dangerous with money. So when it comes to hand, in the public interest they have to be separated from it."

  "Sounds interestin'," said Riles.

  "'Tis, too, especially when one of 'em don't take to the treatment and lays for you with a gun. But my hair's all there. That's what comes of wearing a tall hat."

  "Tell me," said Riles, his face lit up with interest, "how d'ye do it?"

  "'Twouldn't do you any good," said Gardiner. "You've steered too many plough-handles to be very nimble with your fingers. But there's often other game to be picked up, if a man knows where to look for it."

  "Well, I wisht I knew," Riles confessed. "Not anythin' crooked, y' know, but something like—well, something like you're doin'. I've worked hard for ev'ry nickel I ever made, an' I reckon if there's easy money goin' I've a right t' get some of it."

  "Now you're beginning to wake up. Though, mind you, some of it isn't as easy as it looks. You've got to know your business, just like farming or anything else. But you can generally land something to live on, even if it ain't a big stake. Take me now, for instance. I ain't doing anything that a preacher mightn't do. Happened to fall in with a fellow owns a ranch up the river here. Cleaned him empty one night at cards—stood him up for his last cent, and he kind o' took a notion to me. Well, he's the son of a duke or an earl, or some such thing, and not long ago the Governor goes and dies on him, leaving him a few castles and bric-a-brac like that and some wagon-loads of money. So he had to go home for the time being, and as he wanted someone to run his ranch, who should he think of but me. Suppose he thought if I happened to bet it at poker some night I wouldn't lose it, and that's some consideration. He's got a thousand acres or so of land up there, with a dozen cayuses on it, and he gives me twenty-five pounds a month, with board and lodging and open credit at the Trading Company, to see that it doesn't walk away in his absence. Besides that, I hire a man to do the work, and charge his wages up in the expenses. Got a good man, too—one of those fellows who don't know any better than work for a living. By the way, perhaps you know him—comes from Plainville part—Travers his name is?"