Part 19 (1/2)

”Without arguing that point,” said Casey, ”I warn you that we won't stand this sort of thing.”

”If you fellows will keep off our lands there will be no trouble,”

Farwell responded. ”We don't want you, and we won't have you. If you come on business, of course, that's different. Otherwise keep away.

Also we don't want your stock grazing on our property.”

”We may as well have an understanding while we're about it,” said Casey. ”The next man who pulls a gun on me--this Lewis, or anybody else--will have to beat me to the shooting. If you don't want your lands used as part of the range, fence them off. Don't interfere with a single head of my stock, either. And, if I were in your place, I'd offer this man about two hundred dollars for his mare, and throw in an apology.”

”But you're not in my place,” snapped Farwell. ”n.o.body is going to pull a gun on you if you behave yourself. If this man puts in a claim for his horse, I'll consider it, but I won't promise anything.” He turned to his men. ”You get back to work, the lot of you.” Without further words, he strode off to the camp.

Lewis stepped up to McHale. ”I'll take my gun if you're through with it.”

McHale handed him the weapon.

”I don't reckon she's accurate at much over ten yards,” he observed.

”If I was you, I'd fix myself with a good belt gun. It ain't unlikely I packs one myself after this, and we might meet up.”

”Organize yourself the way you want to,” said Lewis carelessly, slipping the weapon in his pocket. ”And if you're a friend of that big Swede, tell him not to look for me too hard. I don't want to hurt him; but I ain't taking chances on no goose guns.” He nodded and marched off after the others.

The three men, left alone, stood in silence for a moment. Then Oscar, with a rumbling curse, began to strip saddle and bridle from his dead pet mare, the tears running down his cheeks.

”And now what?” asked McHale.

”Now,” Casey replied, ”I guess we've got to make good.”

CHAPTER XI

Some two miles distant from the construction camp at the dam, a little cavalcade moved slowly through the darkness of a moonless, cloudy night. A southeast wind was blowing, but it was a drying wind, with no promise of rain. It had blown for days steadily, until it had sucked every vestige of moisture from the top earth, leaving it merely powdery dust. Because of it, too, no dew had fallen; the nights were as dry as the days.

In the grain fields, the continued blast had stripped the surface soil away from the young plants, wrenching and twisting them, desiccating their roots, which, still too feeble to reach what dampness lay lower down, sucked ineffectually at the dry breast of the earth. The plants they could not feed took on the pale-green hue of starvation. There, among the young grain, the stronger gusts lifted dust clouds acres in extent. Low down along the surface, the soil sifted and s.h.i.+fted continually, piling in windrows in spots, burying the young plants, leaving others bare. Odd little devils of whirlwinds, marked by columnar pillars of dust, danced deviously across the fields and along the trails. From the standpoint of a disinterested person, the ceaseless wind would have been unpleasant in its monotony; but from the viewpoint of a rancher it was deadly in its persistence.

The moving figures were so strung out that it appeared almost as though they were riding in the same direction fortuitously, without relation to each other. First came two hors.e.m.e.n; then, at an interval of five hundred yards, came a buckboard, with two men and a led horse. In the rear, five hundred yards back, were two more riders.

This order, however, was not the result of accident, but of calculation. The buckboard held Oscar and the elder McCrae. Also it contained a quant.i.ty of dynamite. Naturally, it was drawn, not by McCrae's eager road team, but by a pair of less ambition. And the riders, front and rear, were in the nature of pickets; for, though it was unlikely that any one would be met at that time of night, it was just as well to take no chances.

The riders in the lead were Casey Dunne and Tom McHale. Each had a rifle beneath his leg. In addition, McHale wore two old, ivory-handled Colts at his belt, and Dunne's single holster held a long automatic, almost powerful as a rifle. They rode slowly, seldom faster than a walk, peering ahead watchfully, their ears tuned to catch the slightest suspicious sound.

”This here is like old times,” said McHale. ”Durn me if I hadn't about forgotten the feel of a gun under my leg. I wish we could have our photos took now. We sure look plenty warlike.”

”I don't want any photo,” said Casey. ”If I can get home without meeting any one, it will suit me down to the ground. I wish we hadn't brought these guns. It's safer every way.”

”It's safer for some people,” McHale commented. ”S'pose we struck hard luck to-night and got backed into a corner or followed up too close--how'd we look without guns? 'Course, I'd take awful long chances before I shot _at_ anybody; but all the same a Winchester helps out a retirin'

disposition a whole lot.”

”No doubt about that. But the devil of packing a gun is the temptation to use it before you really have to. That accounts for a lot of trouble. Why, even in the old days, a man who didn't pack a gun was safe, unless he tracked up with some mighty mean specimen of a killer.

And those dirty killers usually didn't last long.”

”That's so in one way,” McHale admitted, ”but I look at it different.