The Short Cut

by Jackson Gregory

  CHAPTER X

  SHANDON'S GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY

  Wayne Shandon had grown more silent, more thoughtful than men had everknown him. The two things which had come to him, one as unheralded asthe other, the gladness of a deep love, the bitterness which grew outof Martin Leland's words, he kept to himself. He rode far and alone,seeing very little of the men of the Bar L-M or of Garth, to whom hestill left the routine of the range, and who made the most of smallpretexts to keep up of Wayne's way. Shandon wanted time to thinkcoolly and deliberately for the first time in his life; he wanted timeto look inward as well as at what lay without, to cast up the balanceof what sums of good and bad were in his soul.

  Until now he had been quite content with life as he found it. It hadafforded him infinite pleasure, it bubbled up sparklingly from thefountain of contented youth, there had been no need for him to seek tochange its flashing current. Moreover, he had never had an incentiveto bestir himself. But that incentive had come now, a two-prongedgoad; he was compelled to look to himself, to his own positive effort,for what came next.

  Vaguely, at first, he realised that a man if he be a man, has certainresponsibilities. He saw clearly, now that he considered lifeseriously, that a man might err in dalliance and idleness just as hehad erred; and he saw too that a man might, like Sledge Hume, go to theother extreme. A man might grow soft muscled literally andfiguratively in slothful carelessness, or he might grow hard until hebecame a machine. He felt dimly that he ought to be doing somethinglike other men. He wanted his life to live freely as he knew how,largely as he sought to learn how. And he wanted Wanda.

  At first he was like a sea-worthy ship, in a calm with no definite portin sight. But, in due course, from the one vital fact of his love forWanda other facts materialised. To begin with he thought withdiminishing bitterness of old Martin Leland. The man was old, and heloved his daughter. Rumours of a wild life fly incredibly high and farand fast. Such rumours of Red Reckless's doings had come to Leland'sears, and perhaps it was natural enough that Leland believed them.Shandon had always known his neighbour as a hard man but a just. Hemade up his mind not to quarrel with him, but instead to so change thetenor of his life that Martin Leland would notice and would approve.If in taking Wanda to her new home he closed her old one to her hewould be hurting her.

  He saw clearly, there being little foolish conceit in the man's makeup,that he was not worthy. And he understood, though vaguely at first,that it must be his one object now to become as worthy as any man couldbe of her. And when the fifth day came and Ruf Ettinger rode to theBar L-M with excitement dancing in his eyes and his tongue clacking,Shandon thought that he saw a beginning.

  Ruf Ettinger, a little dried up man of forty-five, was crabbed, cranky,sour and mean. He had the eyes, nose and brain of a fox, while perhapsthe rest of him, heart and soul, came close to being just plain hog.He was stingy and suspicious, and people were no more in the habit ofspeaking well of him than they were of riding out of their way to stopat his place. He was the kind of man that makes his wife and childrenlive in a miserable, two roomed shanty, while he builds a big, warm,expensive barn for his hay and horses. The only time he was evercredited with a human emotion was when his favourite dog died; he criedover it and then got drunk, careless of cost.

  Shandon was surprised when he saw Ettinger ride up. He was moresurprised at Ettinger's manner when he insisted on Shandon saddling andriding with him where there "wouldn't be no chance of bein' overheard."

  Once clear of the house and outbuildings and in the valley where hisshrewd little eyes made sure that no other ears than Shandon's wouldoverhear, Ettinger plunged eagerly into his errand.

  In brief it was this: Ettinger owned five hundred acres of valley land,down in Dry Valley, some thirty miles from the Bar L-M bunk house.Shandon knew the place well. Ettinger had, also, some money in thebank. How much it was not his cautious way to say until he was obligedto. How much would Shandon say his ranch was worth? Shandon did notknow, but hazarded the guess that it might bring twenty-five dollars anacre. He did not consider it worth more because it was good grazingland only for part of the year, and like the rest of the valley therewas scant water on it through the summer. Twelve thousand five hundreddollars?

  Ettinger cackled; he could sell it to-morrow for seventy-five thousand!

  Shandon began to feel the first dim stirrings of interest. Ettinger'sexcitement was too genuine not to awaken certain glimmerings ofinterest. Water, that was the thing! Now, if there were water, plentyof water, in Dry Valley; if a man could flood his land from brimmingditches then what would happen? The soil was deep and rich; it hadbeen slipping down from the mountains for centuries; it had never beenworn out by farming. Twenty-five dollars an acre? What were the otherCalifornia valley lands worth where there was the same soil, no betterclimate and water galore? Napa Valley, Santa Clara Valley, SacramentoValley? A hundred dollars an acre was dirt cheap; a man thoughtnothing of paying for a small ranch five hundred dollars an acre!

  That was true enough, and Shandon knew it. But there was thattremendous IF.

  "It's all right, Ettinger. All but the water! And since the water isthe whole thing, and I don't see where you're going to get it--"

  "Wait a minute!" cried Ettinger, his eager hand clutching at Shandon'sarm. "I tell you I'd a sold that ranch for twenty-five dollars an acresix months ago an' been damn' glad to git out at that. An' right now Icould sell for a hundred an' fifty the acre! An' I'm damned if I doit! My nose smells somethin' when a man wants that place that bad, an'I git busy follerin' the smell. If I ever sell at less than twohundred dollars I'm gone crazy."

  His excitement growing as the vision of much gold became clearer, heran on with hasty explanations. He had five hundred acres; Norfolk hadclose to a thousand and he had made Norfolk begin to think for thefirst time in his life. He himself had a little money in the bank andNorfolk had some. There were other men, little ranchers, whom theycould whip into line. _And Wayne Shandon had the water!_

  Shandon looked at him in amazement, thinking at first that the man wasa little mad. But Ettinger's shrewd eyes were sane enough.

  "We go right up to your lake," he cried shrilly. "We git busy withsome engineers an' pick an' shovel men. We blow the side of a hill allto hell an' what happens? The water just comes a bulgin' down into DryCreek, an' all we got to do down in the valley, twenty, thirty milesaway, is dig ditches an' watch our land turn into a gold mine!"

  In a flash Shandon saw the utter simplicity of the whole scheme.Whereas now the river from Laughter Lake shot down the mountainsthrough its rocky gorge, watering his own land and running throughlittle narrow, rocky valleys to the lower slopes, it might here nearthe head be deflected so that it sped at first through the canon of theupper Dry Creek, and following a natural course be brought with littleexpense to Dry Valley. Ettinger's proposition was no fanciful dream;it was hard, unvarnished fact. And, as so often happens when a mansees a radiant possibility, he wondered that he had not seen it forhimself long ago.

  Here was the golden opportunity his soul, in a mist, had yearned for!He shot out his hand gripping Ruf Ettinger's until the little mansquirmed. But even the pain of nearly crushed fingers did not drivethe grin from Ettinger's face.

  "You're on," he cried exultantly. "Shandon, we'll frame a deal that'llmake millionaires out of us."

  "And man's work!" was the thought stirring Shandon's heart andbrightening his eyes.

  They rode on, as Ettinger had planned from the beginning, and coveredthe two miles to Laughter Lake in a few minutes. They rode up theshoulder of the ridge to the level of the lake; and there RufEttinger's eager finger pointed out where the work was to be done.

  It was work which Nature might have planned when the mountains werecarved, the lake set in its deep bowl. Fifteen feet from this end ofthe lake the water swept into a narrow channel, a ridge running downfrom each side. Here was the spot to deflect the waters before theysped on down over
the steep fall. Upon the south side there was ajagged cut in the saw-toothed cliff line. Even now the lowest part ofthat cut, when once the free soil was scooped out, was not ten feetabove the level of the water.

  "I rode up here purt' near a week ago," said Ettinger. "I looked thisover an' rode back all the way down Dry Creek. It's dead easy,Shandon."

  Already Ettinger visualised the cut deepened and widened here withflood gates to control the current. He spurred his horse up the bankas far as he could force the animal, then got down and scrambled on,gesticulating and talking swiftly. Shandon followed him. In a littlethey came to a point from which they could look back upon the lake, andforward to the windings of the canon through which Dry Creek ran inwinter and spring.

  "It can be done," muttered Shandon slowly. "It can be done, Ettinger.I don't know what it will cost, five thousand or ten or twenty; but Ido know that those lands down in Dry Valley are going to jump over themoon."

  Ettinger made little clucking sounds with his mouth, his way ofexpressing joy unbounded.

  "An' you don't see it all yet," he chuckled. "Lord, I've been layin'awake nights figgerin' on it. We'll bond everything that's loose inthe valley. I've got Norfolk settin' tight and we'll round up a lot ofthe little fellers. It's sort of late, maybe, but them other fellersain't got everything sewed up by a jugful."

  "What other fellows?" asked Shandon, mystified.

  Then Ettinger, in his rare good humour loosened his tongue until itpoured out everything there was in his seething brain. He told of thescheme of Martin Leland and Sledge Hume, for Garth Conway had droppedan incautious word and the shrewd brain of Ettinger had worked out thepuzzle. He told how the three men were trying to do this very thing,how they had planned on getting the water themselves, how Martin Lelandhad tied up thousands in options and purchases, how Ettinger had beenone too many for them and had beat them to Shandon. He chuckled overeverything, but most of all over the fact that Martin Leland had triedto buy him out. Old Leland was the keenest business man in the county,was he? Well, Ettinger had fooled him! Ettinger had blinded him witha promise to sell next week for seventy-five thousand. By that time,when Leland came to him--

  "What's all this?" frowned Shandon. "You say that Leland, Conway andHume are already at work, planning to put water from the Bar L-M intoDry Valley?"

  "Already?" cried Ettinger. "They been clawin' at the job over a yearnow. The Lord knows what makes 'em so slow; think nobody else in theworld can see straight, or shy on the money end, maybe. Anyhow they'vegone to it tooth and toe nail; they've sunk thousands into it,thousands I tell you! An' now, you an' me, Shandon, can make the bunchof 'em eat out of our hands! They can't do nothin' without your water;that's where we got 'em."

  Wayne Shandon's eyes grew bright with a vision, the muscles of his jawhardened. In sober truth his opportunity had come to him. Hume, a manhe hated, Leland, a man who had called him laggard, spendthrift,scoundrel, had put many thousands of dollars into a project which hecould smash into pieces. Ettinger had said it: the two of them couldmake Leland and Hume eat out of their hands! They could get Norfolkand the little fellows; they could tear out the side of the ridge,release what waters they chose, make their ditches, and by improvingonly their own property make Leland's and Hume's holdings worthnothing. Leland had started it; Leland's unreasonable censure had beena challenge. Here was his answer!

  It was business, straight business. Had Leland and Hume been hisfriends it would have been different. But they deserved noconsideration from him. It was his water; he had the right to disposeof it as he saw fit. He would be treating Leland as fairly as he hadbeen treated. Why had they not come to him in the first place? Whyhad they not offered him the opportunity to get in on the ground floorwith them? He would have given them the water then, glad to seeWanda's father prospering. But they were holding out, they werewaiting for something, they had made sure of his consent to let themhave what they wanted. Why? When they had everything cornered theywould offer him a small sum, they would believe him fool enough to leapat it, mouth open, like a fish. Even Garth Conway, his own cousin, hadnot told him! What consideration did Conway deserve?

  "By Heaven!" cried Shandon.

  And then he fell suddenly silent.

  "We got to git busy in a hurry, Shandon," Ettinger ran on swiftly."When old Sure-Thing Leland comes to me to close the deal I want tolaugh at him."

  Slowly the light died out of Shandon's eyes. Was this, after all, theopportunity for which he had yearned? He grew uncertain, a littletroubled. An opportunity for what? For becoming worthy of Wanda, forbeing a man, square and just, a man who must make a new name forhimself, a name which would never bring discredit to her when shebecame Wanda Shandon? In trying to ruin Sledge Hume for the sordidmotives of hatred and gain, in trying to strike back at Wanda's fatherin vengeful bitterness, would he be doing a thing of which later hewould be proud to have her know? Was he proving his manhood byaccepting for his first business partner a man like Ettinger, wholaughed over his feat of tricking another man by a lie? Was he notseeking to blind himself to the right and the wrong of it? This wasthe sort of thing that Sledge Hume would do; should Wayne Shandon doit? Was his first venture after the priceless gift of Wanda's love tohim, to be a thing like this? Had this been the opportunity he hadyearned for, to grasp gold full handed, to wreak vengeance, toretaliate against unfair treatment by striking back treacherously?Martin Leland had been unjust, yes. But had there not been stronghuman reasons for that injustice? Had not his own wild living beencause enough? Was he, from the sharp words of an old man who wasjealous in his love for his daughter, to draw an excuse to strike athis own cousin and Wanda's father?

  "Ettinger," he said quietly. "I can't do it. You had better keep yourpromise to Leland."

  Ettinger's jaw dropped, his brows puckered in astonishment.

  "What's the matter with you?" he demanded sharply. "Can't you see theplay? We got the chance to git the water on the land and make themfellers pay for it or sell to us at our own figger, ain't we? Why,it's as good as gold, man! If you don't see enough in it as it standsyou are in a place where you can hold 'em up for a bonus to boot."

  Shandon turned away, Ettinger's point of view suddenly disgusting him.His golden opportunity had crumbled into dust and ashes. And althoughthe little man by his side waxed voluble in alternating rage andsupplication, Wayne Shandon's final word was a positive,

  "No!"