Part 13 (1/2)

”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 h.e.l.l 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 cla.s.s or privilege. Here, in the new country, in place of the divine right of kings and the hereditary power of n.o.bles, was subst.i.tuted 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 diminis.h.i.+ng 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.

”h.e.l.lo, did you speak to me?” said the voice of his a.s.sistant, Keeler, in the darkness.

”No!” snapped Farwell, with unnecessary curtness; ”I didn't.”

CHAPTER VIII

At the end of a week Farwell told Keeler that he was going to ride over to Talapus. He added unnecessarily that he wanted to see how his horse was getting on. Whereat his a.s.sistant, who had very good ears, grinned internally, though outwardly he kept a decorous face. He did not expect his chief back till late.

But Farwell returned early, and spent a busy half hour in blowing up everybody from Keeler down. On this occasion he had not seen Sheila at all. She and Casey Dunne, so Mrs. McCrae informed him, were at the latter's ranch. Mr. Dunne, it appeared, was buying some house furnis.h.i.+ngs, and wanted Sheila's advice. Farwell took an abrupt departure, declining a hospitable invitation. He barely looked at the lame horse.

For another week he sulked in a poisonous temper. He was done with Talapus. He thought that McCrae girl had some sense, but if she was going traipsing all over the country with Dunne, why, that let him out.

Maybe she was going to marry Dunne. It looked like it. Anyway, it was none of his business. But the end of it was that he went to Talapus again.