Chapter 7 - How Some Carrots Stopped a Range War
One hot summer day, Mitch and Elias were lounging in their office trying to avoid the stifling Nevada heat outside. Mitch was singing to the potted radish plants on his desk while Elias sat across the room wearing earplugs, reading a book called How to Find Gold When Nobody Else Can. Mitch liked to sing to all his plants to help them grow, but he especially liked to sing to the radishes which seemed to get bigger and redder every time they listened to “O Susannah,” or “She’ll be Comin’ Around the Mountain.” (Since they were only plants, they couldn’t tell he sang off key).
Suddenly they heard gunfire from the street, followed by running footsteps. Then a man burst in through the door, his face as white as a sheet. He dived under Mitch’s desk.
“Sheriff, save me!” the man cried. “There’s five of ‘em out there and they want to do me in!” Mitch calmly rose from his desk and went to the window. He saw five men on horseback in the dusty street, holding pistols and rifles and looking mighty grim. He recognized them as ranch hands that worked on Gus Bomont’s cattle ranch outside of town.
Mitch turned back to the man under the desk. “What’s this all about?” he asked quietly.
“Rancher Bomont is after me!” wailed the man under the desk. “He’s been trying to run me off my farm since last spring because I put up a fence so his cows won’t eat my corn or drink from my water hole. I suppose his cows used to graze on my farm an drink from my water hole before I put up the fence, and I’ll admit I didn’t get his permission before I moved there, but honest, sheriff, I didn’t steal any land from him. I bought that land from the railroad. Bomont didn’t own it. I’ve got my deed right here!” A hand emerged from under the desk, waving a piece of paper.
Before Mitch could respond, one of the ranch hands from outside yelled, “come on out, you no good squatter! We know you’re in there!”
“I guess, I’d better go out and take care of these boys,” said Mitch calmly. “Stay right there.”
“Believe me, I’m not going anywhere,” came the voice from under the desk.
The minute Mitch emerged from his office, the ranch hands nervously moved their hands away from their guns, since none of them wanted to be shot with poison ivy. But their leader, Julius Gravelface, grumbled, “Sheriff, we know that no-account squatter Joe Slug is hiddin’ in your office. If you’ll just send him out here, we’ll give him what’s a comin’ to him for stealin’ some of Bomont’s land.”
“You know I can’t do that, Julius,” Mitch said gently. “Not even if he had done something wrong. But he says he bought his land from the railroad fair and square and he’s got a deed.”
Julius spat some of the tobacco he had been chewing into the dirt. “Deed, shmeed!” he replied. “Our boss, Gus Bomont, has been runnin’ cattle through there ever since he started the Bar Q Ranch 25 years ago. It’s his land by right of use and no paper deed can change that. Your squatter friend has got to go!”
Mitch shook his head. “That’s not what the law says, Julius. If that farmer’s got a deed and Gus Bomont doesn’t, then the farmer’s got a legal claim that would win in any court of law in the land.”
Julius scowled. “We don’t need no court of law to tell us what’s right and wrong. Our guns are all we need!”
At these words, the other ranch hands all turned white and moved their horses out of Mitch’s line of fire, so Julius was facing him alone. Suddenly realizing he didn’t have the support of his friends, Julius coughed nervously and said, “but then … uh … I guess there’s a lot to be said fer them courts of law … uhm … you know, I didn’t really mean to say we was gonna use guns against you – I mean, against anyone. Why don’t we just forget I said anything? This was just a little misunderstanding.” And with that, he turned his horse and trotted off down the street, making sure to keep his hands as far away from his guns as possible. His friends followed after, doing the same.
Mitch shook his head while watching them go, then went back into his office.
“Are they gone?” came a shaky voice from under the desk.
“Yep,” replied Mitch. “You’re safe now.” Then turning to the jail cell in the corner, Mitch said, “and you can come out too, Elias.”
With a sheepish look on his face, Elias emerged from under the cot in the cell where he had hidden when he first heard gunfire. Turning back to the farmer Mitch said, “however, I’m afraid your problems aren’t over and it probably won’t be safe to return to your farm, since Bomont and his ranch hands will probably be there waiting for you.”
“I can’t go back?” cried Joe Slug. “How am I supposed to raise my corn if I’m not there? It’ll wither and die if I don’t water it!”
Mitch flinched. Few things stirred him more than the suffering of innocent plants. He scratched his chin. “There must be something I can do to help your poor corn,” he muttered. He thought carefully for a moment, while stroking the vine of one of his tomato plants in the window. Finally, he shook his head and said sadly, “I’m afraid it’s out of my jurisdiction. I’m sheriff within town limits, but your farm is outside those limits. I’m not sure there’s anything I can do.”
“What about the federal marshals?” asked Cousin Elias. “Don’t they have jurisdiction over the whole territory? They could help.”
Mitch’s face brightened. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll send them a telegram right away! What a great idea!” He darted out the door and headed for the telegraph office.
But two hours later, farmer Slug and Mitch were back in the office with glum looks on their faces. A telegraph from the federal marshals sat on the desk, which read as follows:
Dear Sheriff Mitch. Stop. Cannot come to area around Broken Jaw Junction. Stop. Lost half our Marshals last time we got involved in a fight over land between ranchers and farmers. Stop. However, there is one thing we can do. Stop. We hereby confer on you and your deputy the authority to enforce the law outside Broken Jaw Junction until you settle the dispute, the same as if you were federal marshals. Stop. Good luck. Stop. You’ll need it. Stop.
The minute the telegraph arrived, Cousin Elias had turned a deathly shade of gray, and then had hurriedly started packing. He was now nearly finished, and was grumpily stuffing his last few dirty socks into his saddlebags. Meanwhile Mitch sat behind his desk deep in thought, and farmer Slug sat fidgeting in the corner.
“C’mon, Cousin Mitch,” said Elias. “If we hurry we can still catch the 3:00 o’clock stage and save ourselves the long horse ride to Soda Jerk Springs.”
Before Mitch could reply, farmer Slug wailed, “You can’t just go and leave me! Those Bar Q ranch hands will chop me up for dinner! They’ll burn all my corn!” Mitch winced at the mention of burning corn, but replied calmly, “No need to worry, Mr. Slug. Now that the federal marshals have given me authority to deal with this problem, I’ll see it through, come what may.” He gave Elias a sharp look. “And, I trust I’ll have my deputy at my side?”
“Nope,” said Elias without hesitation. “Your ex-deputy will be in Soda Jerk Springs by tonight.” He looked sadly at Mitch. “C’mon, Mitch,” he said imploringly. “There’s no way you can face all those ranch hands and come out alive, even though you’re fast with a gun. But if you leave now, you can get out with your hide still intact.”
Mitch shook his head. “You know I can’t do that. I must fulfill the public trust. I’m sure there’s a way to solve this without bloodshed – and it’s our job to find it!”
“It’s hopeless,” replied Elias. “How’re ya gonna convince a rancher who’s used the same waterhole and feeding grounds for over 20 years to suddenly give it up to a new, upstart farmer, and let his cows die?”
“But it isn’t fair for him to have my land!” yelled farmer Slug. “It took all the money I’d saved for the last five years to buy it! I can’t just wal
k away from it!”
“Hmmm … “ said Mitch while he stroked his chin. “It does look like an impossible problem … but there’s got to be a way!” With a look of determination on his face, he got up and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” asked farmer Slug.
“To talk with Gus Bomont,” replied Mitch, “to see if we can work something out.”
“You’re crazy!” yelled Elias after him. “He’s got over three dozen ranch hands! You won’t come out alive!” But Mitch was already half way down the street.
Farmer Slug turned to Elias and said reproachfully, “Why don’t you go help him? After all, he’s your cousin! With your help, maybe he could come back alive!”
“Me?!” exclaimed Elias. “Are you crazy? I don’t want to end up in Boot Hill. Those ranch hands have guns, and they know how to use them!” Then Elias gave farmer Slug a sly smile, and asked, “Why don’t you go help him. After all, it’s your farm he’s trying to save.”
Farmer Slug suddenly started to fidget. “Me?!” he asked innocently. “Well (cough, cough), actually I’m plum worn out from being chased into town by those ranch hands. Before I could even think about doing something like that, I’d need a little shuteye in this nice, safe jail cell.” And with this, farmer Slug locked himself in a cell and hid under the blanket on the cot.
Cousin Elias snorted in disgust, grabbed his stuffed saddlebags, and strode from the office.
It’s a lucky thing Gus Bomont was in town that day, since even Mitch couldn’t have outgunned all of Bomont’s cowboys if he’d gone out to the Bar Q Ranch. But Bomont just happened to be at the saloon with only a few of his ranch hands—the same ones that had chased Farmer Slug to the sheriff’s office.
Bomont was a big man, with a harsh face that looked like it had been carved out of granite. No one in living memory had ever crossed him and lived to tell about it. When Mitch arrived, he was sitting at a table in the middle of the saloon, looking as if he were in a bad mood. Anyone else would have turned around and walked back out the door once they saw him looking like that, but Mitch headed straight for Bomont’s table without the least hesitation.
“Gus,” said Mitch as he took a seat at Bomont’s table in the saloon, “I understand you’re trying to run Joe Slug off his farm.”
The saloon, which had been noisy and active up to that moment, suddenly became so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. It was the first time anyone remembered seeing someone challenge Bomont to his face, and they expected fireworks. At first, Bomont’s ranch hands moved their hands toward their guns – until they saw who had spoken to their boss. Then they moved their hands as far away from their guns as possible.
Bomont stared at Mitch for a minute. Then his harsh face slowly broke into a smile—a harsh, wicked smile—and he put down his drink. In a smooth, deep voice he asked, “Now sheriff, whatever gave you that idea?”
“Joe Slug himself,” replied Mitch. “He’s at my office now. He was chased there by five of your ranch hands.”
Julius Gravelface and the other ranch hands standing at the bar started to fidget and look nervous. But Bomont just laughed gently, a cruel laugh without humor. “There must be some mistake,” he said quietly. “My boys just wanted to talk with Joe about the old water hole next to the farmhouse he built.” Then Bomont added icily, “The waterhole my cows have been drinking at for over 20 years, until he put up that fence!”
Several onlookers in the saloon shifted nervously. Every eye in the saloon was glued on Bomont and Mitch, waiting to see if something exciting would happen. You couldn’t have paid them to leave.
“Now, Gus,” Mitch said calmly, “I understand you may not be very happy about what’s happened to your water hole. But Slug does have legal title to the property that would stand up in any court of law.”
Bomont’s face turned purple. “I have title by right of use!” he said firmly, pounding his fist on the table so hard it made his drink jump an inch in the air. There was a tense moment in which it looked like he might turn the whole table over on top of Mitch. Then with a visible effort, he brought himself under control, his face slowly turning back to a normal color. He smirked and said gruffly, “Now, now, sheriff. This isn’t your concern. You only have jurisdiction here in town, and that property is way out in the country. If Slug has a legal claim to that land, that’s his concern, not yours.”
“The federal marshals just gave me jurisdiction over the countryside and authorized me to handle this problem for them,” replied Mitch matter-of-factly. “So it is my problem and I intend to deal with it!”
The tension and excitement in the air was now so thick you could have cut it with a knife. Bomont’s face turned purple again with suppressed rage. His ranch hands starting worrying he would tell them to draw on Mitch, since they knew there weren’t enough of them to take him, and none of them wanted to end up in jail, scratching their itches all night. Some of the miners in the room were so excited they were hopping from one foot to the other as if they needed to go to the bathroom. (Mining is very dull work, so they were happy to be part of the excitement, even if they had nothing to do with it).
Suddenly Bomont broke the tension by laughing again, a big hearty laugh that still didn’t have any humor in it. Turning to the bartender, he called out, “Hey, Charlie, we’ve got a great funny man for a sheriff! Bring him a drink—on me.”
“No thanks,” said Mitch quickly. He smiled self-consciously. “I appreciate the offer, but I only drink carrot juice with a little celery mixed in. You should try some. It tastes much better than anything here in the saloon!”
Bomont stared at Mitch as if he had just sprouted a purple petunia out of his nose. Everyone else was staring too. They all knew that Mitch was peculiar and had a strange fondness for vegetables and gardening, but they had never heard of a man actually admitting in a saloon that he drank carrot juice instead of alcohol. After recovering from their shock, many were tempted to laugh out loud—but didn’t of course, since they didn’t want to land in jail.
“Yes … well…” said Bomont, trying to recompose himself. He coughed politely. “I suppose carrot juice is fine too …” Then he said, “You know, sheriff, maybe you’re right about Joe Slug.”
Some of Bomont’s ranch hands nearly dropped their drinks, they were so shocked at what their boss was saying.
Bomont continued. “Maybe I’ve been a little hasty about sending the boys after him. I guess that wasn’t very neighborly.” He paused while everyone stared at him bug-eyed in disbelief. “Why don’t you tell Joe to go on back to his farm and I promise we won’t hurt him.”
Mitch looked shrewdly at Bomont. “What about the other new farmers out there? Burt Leach, Thad Stinch and Barton Jergle?”
“I promise I won’t hurt them either. They’ll be perfectly safe.”
“And what about their farms?” asked Mitch.
“Now, sheriff,” replied Bomont in a milk and honey voice, “I’ve promised their safety. What more do you want?”
Mitch’s face hardened. “You’ve got to also guarantee that their farms and crops will not be harmed in any way.”
“But sheriff,” Bomont said with a sly grin, “how can I guarantee that? It’s wild country out there! Anything could happen!”
“Let me repeat,” said Mitch icily, “you’ve got to promise me you won’t do anything to any of their farms!”
“Me?!” said Bomont innocently. “Of course I won’t do anything to their farms. But I can’t control things like lightning strikes, earthquakes or cattle stampedes caused by rattlesnakes!”
Bomont’s ranch hands were grinning broadly. Now they knew what their boss was up to. It was a big country out there, and anything could happen—and if they weren’t seen doing it to the farmers, who could prove it was them?
“I see,” said Mitch curtly. “So you’re not going to promise anything other than their personal saf
ety. And I can expect things to happen on their farms.”
“Things?” said Bomont in mock surprise. “What things? I don’t know what you mean.” He smiled sweetly. “You know, it is a wild country out there, and I can’t spend all my time watching over those farms just so I won’t be blamed for anything that might happen to them. After all, I’ve got a cattle business to run.”
Mitch gave Bomont a hard look. Then he rose to leave. “All right, then. If that’s the way you want to play the game. But you’re asking for trouble.”
“Asking for trouble?” said Bomont, raising his eyebrows. “That almost sounds like a threat.” He gave Mitch a shrewd look. “Are you going to accuse me if anything happens out there to those farmers, even without any proof? You wouldn’t to that, would you sheriff? After all, the law requires evidence, doesn’t it?”
The room was deathly quiet as the two men stared at each other. Finally, Mitch let out a slow breath and said quietly, “No, I wouldn’t do that. The law needs proof.” Then he turned and strode from the room.
As soon as he was gone, everyone cheered and yelled and grinned and slapped each other on the back about how Bomont had outsmarted Sheriff Mitch. The saloon keeper was so happy that he grabbed Bomont’s hand and shook it hand so hard that you could hear the bones pop. Then he went over and sat in the corner and cried quietly, out of sheer joy.
When Mitch got back to his office, he found Joe Slug lounging in his chair with his feet propped up on the desk, dangerously close to Mitch’s potted tomato plants. In embarrassment, the farmer hastily hopped out from behind the desk, nearly knocking over the tomatoes in the process. Mitch gave him a look that would have wilted fresh lettuce.
"Sorry," Joe said, red faced. Then, to change the subject, he asked, "So what did Bomont say?"
"He made it clear he won't leave your farm alone, although he promised he wouldn't hurt you or the other farmers personally," said Mitch.
"But what about my crop?!" cried Joe. "If they won't leave my farm alone, how am I going to raise it? If I lose my crop I'll go broke and lose the farm, and have to move away!"
"I know," replied Mitch grimly. "And that's just what Bomont intends. And in that big open country out there, finding actual proof that he hurt your farm will be pretty hard."
"Then all is lost!" moaned Joe, sinking into a different chair and putting his face in his hands. "I might as well go back to Tulsa and my old dish-washing job at the 'Greasy Goblet.'
"We haven't lost yet," said Mitch in a tight voice. "Don't give up. I'm sure we'll find a way out of this ..." He stroked his chin, deep in thought. Suddenly he looked around curiously. "Where's my Cousin Elias?"
"He took off half an hour ago," replied Joe. "Said he'd send out a nice grave stone for you once it's all over."
With a sad smile Mitch said, "poor Elias. If he gets lost in that desert, he's going to need the grave stone himself!"
The light was on late into the night at Sheriff Mitch's office after his talk with Bomont at the saloon. Some said it was because Joe Slug was playing cards with the other farmers (Burt Leach, Thad Stinch and Barton Jergle) who had showed up around nightfall to save their hides. Others said the farmers wouldn't stay up that late since they're so used to getting up early to milk their dairy cows, and that the light was on because Mitch was either making his funeral arrangements or searching through old newspapers looking for another job.
But they were all wrong …
The next morning, Mitch left town early, heading off to the southwest. He left the four farmers in his office (each one had taken over his own jail cell in order to be more comfortable) with strict instructions to water his zuchini and tomato plants, but without a word about where he was going.
He didn't come back until the next day in the afternoon, leading a pack mule with several mysterious parcels tied to its back. When asked what was in the sacks, he just smiled and then carefully watered his potato and cucumber plants in the garden next to his office.
That evening Mitch asked the farmers to go over to the saloon to see if Bomont was there.
"You gonna go talk with him again?" asked Bart Jergle. “His men are bragging all over town about how he out smarted you the last time!"
"Actually," said Mitch, "I don't want to talk to him--I want to talk to his horse."
"His horse!!" exclaimed the three farmers. They stared at Mitch with their mouths open as if a cactus had just sprouted out of his ear. But Mitch just smiled, picked up his watering can, and headed outside to water his cauliflower plants.
"Do you think the sheriff's finally flipped?" asked Burt Leach.
"Probably ate too many radishes," said Thad Stinch.
"And if he’s flipped, that means there's no hope for our farms," moaned Joe Slug.
"Now fellas," said Bart Jergle, "don't forget, Sheriff Mitch outfoxed those bank robbers with flower pollen! Maybe he's got some idea in mind to help us. Lets go see if Bomont is at the saloon like he asked."
With a good deal of grumbling the others agreed. Fifteen minutes later they reported back to Mitch in his garden that Bomont was at the saloon with a lot of his ranch hands, celebrating how they had beaten the sheriff, and enjoying free drinks from the saloon keeper. Bomont’s horse was tied out front.
"Good," said Mitch simply. Setting down his watering can, he went over to his carrot patch and began to harvest a few of the bigger ones. Once he had a few he headed for the kitchen next to his office. Without a word the farmers followed and watched as he grated the carrots into a metal bowl. Mitch picked up the bowl and a metal spoon, smiled at the farmers, and said casually, "Well, see you later. I've got a horse to talk to."
Then he was gone.
There was silence among the farmers for a moment. Then Thad Stinch mumbled "too many radishes," and the four went back into the office to talk about what they should do now that Mitch had lost his marbles.
For the next four days the farmers stayed at Sheriff Mitch's office. Every evening Bomont and his ranch hands came into town to spend some time at the saloon where they were treated as heroes. And every evening, Mitch harvested and grated some carrots, then left with the bowl and a spoon to talk to Bomont's horse. Rumors were flying around town that Mitch had flipped his lid, and that it was only a matter of time until the mayor and town council fired him and the town was returned to chaos. Meanwhile, the saloon keeper went around town with such a big smile on his face, it was surprising his face didn't crack.
Finally, a week after the showdown between Mitch and Bomont at the saloon, Mitch called the four farmers out of their jail cells and announced that they were all going out to Joe Slug's farm.
"But we'll get run off!" cried Thad Stinch.
"Yeah," said Joe. "Those ranch hands are probably watching for us to come back. And they've probably already taken their cows across my corn patch to reach the watering hole."
Mitch winced at the mention of trampled corn, but raised his hand for silence. "I know it seems impossible, but we're going out there to take care of this problem. I think I've got an idea that should work. And we're going to Joe's farm because it is closest to Bomont's ranch and will be the first one he acts against." No amount of begging by the farmers would make Mitch change his mind or convince him to tell anything about his plan.
Within the hour, Mitch and the farmers headed out of town for Joe Slug's farm. When they got there they were surprised to see that Bomont hadn't done anything yet to destroy it. (Apparently he had been too busy coming into town every day to celebrate.) Joe Slug kept running around with his mouth open, shouting about how nothing had been touched and his crops were still all alive.
Then Mitch did something that was absolutely bizarre. He grated some carrots into a metal bowl he had brought, grabbed a spoon, and then told the farmers he'd soon be back with Bomont to talk over the solution to their problem. The farmers stared at him bug-eyed in astonishment, but before they could as
k why he was crazy enough to want to bring Bomont there, he was gone.
"Now, what in tarnation do you think the sheriff's thinkin', to bring Bomont here?" asked Bart Jergle.
"He'll come with all his ranch hands and trample all my corn!" said Joe Slug mournfully.
"We'll be mobbed!" cried Thad Stinch. "Bomont will probably go back on his word to not hurt us personally, since out here no one will know the difference!"
"Maybe the sheriff's on their side after all," said Burt Leach. "He's bringin' 'em here to put pressure on his to give up our farms!"
With this depressing thought, the farmers grew silent and waited glumly for Mitch and the ranchers to return and their doom to be sealed.
Time passed. The day grew hot (all days grow hot in the Nevada desert, even in December). Other than the occasional yip of a coyote or the rustle of a tumbleweed as the wind blew it by, there was no sound at all. The sun dragged across the sky while the afternoon slowly passed. After awhile, even the wind stopped blowing. Everything was dead. In spite of their sense of impending doom, it was so hot and silent that the farmers all started to doze a little on the couch and chairs in Joe Slug’s living room.
Suddenly the front door swung open with a bang. The farmers all jumped. Mitch strode into the room and said cheerfully, "Bomont will be here any minute, and he won't be very happy. But we'll have a nice little talk and get this whole problem settled."
The farmers’ faces went white, and Burt Leach dived behind the couch. But before they could do or say anything else, they heard the pounding of horse's hoofs rapidly approaching, which came to a sudden stop right outside the front door. Suddenly Bomont's voice boomed out—“What's going on here! And what's happened to my horse?!"
The farmers stood paralyzed in terror, while Mitch just stood by the window smiling. "Right on schedule," he said happily. "He'll be in ranting and raving any second." Mitch smiled calmly at the farmers who were now trembling down to their boots.
The front door banged open again, as Bomont strode into the room. "What's this all about?!" he cried in a voice so loud that even the windows shook. On seeing Mitch, his eyes narrowed, and he said suspiciously, “What are you up to, sheriff? And what did you do to my horse?”
“Your horse?” said Mitch innocently.
“Yes, my horse!!” bellowed Bomont, his face purple with suppressed rage. “I was peacefully riding the range when suddenly it pricked up its ears as if it heard something. Then it took off like a bolt of lightning, and ran so fast I could hardly stay on. My ranch hands probably thought I was crazy. I didn't even have time to call to any of them to follow me, and none did."
The farmers each breathed a sigh of relief that Bomont hadn't brought any ranch hands with him. But they were still shaking in their boots because of Bomont himself. Sheriff Mitch however was perfectly relaxed.
"I'm glad you could make it to our little meeting, Mr. Bomont," the sheriff said pleasantly. "I just thought it might be nice for us to all get together and have a little chat."
"A LITTLE CHAT?!" bellowed Bomont so loud that some of the shingles on the roof blew off. "I'm not going to 'chat' to a bunch of squatters about how they stole my land!" He turned and strode through the door, slamming it so hard behind him that some of the bricks in the fireplace were shaken lose.
The farmers breathed a collective sigh of relief, but Mitch only beamed all the broader and picked up his spoon and metal bowl full of grated carrot. As they listened to the hooves of Bomont's horse pounding away, Mitch stepped to the door.
"No need to fret," he said calmly. "He'll be right back." Then Mitch opened the door, pounded and scraped the spoon on the metal bowl, and even poured some grated carrot on the doorstep. Immediately they heard Bomont's horse turn and gallop back to the house with Bomont yelling and cursing all the way.
In a minute the rancher was back in the room, his face almost blue with rage. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY HORSE?!!" he blared in a voice that cracked a few windows and made the couch tip over (with Burt Leach still behind it). Mitch just smiled and said, "nothing."
"What do you mean 'nothing?'" cried Bomont. "That's the best trained stallion on my ranch and its always obeyed me until now. What did you do to make it turn against me?"
"It just likes carrots," said Mitch simply. "I've been giving it grated carrots for the last few days while you were in the saloon, and I guess it developed a taste for them."
Bomont stared blankly at Mitch for a moment. "Grated carrots?" he repeated dumbly. "You bewitched my horse with carrots?"
"Yep," said Mitch with a smile. "Truth is, most horses can't resist grated carrots. They go crazy with joy when they know they’re going to get some. Your horse will come running if he hears me scraping this bowl, no matter where he is."
Bomont scowled fiercely for a moment. Finally he said, "so you trapped me here, eh? By bewitching my horse with carrots so I can't ride it home. And I don't have any of my hands with me!"
"That's right," said Mitch with a grin. "I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't walk out on our little chat."
"There you go about chatting again!" yelled Bomont. "I don't want to chat, especially with these land thieves!" Bomont jerked his thumb at the four farmers shivering in the corner.
"Well, you are free to leave," said Mitch innocently. "Although it's a long walk back to your ranch on foot."
Bomont's face twisted in rage. But finally he sighed in resignation and dropped into a chair with a grunt.
"O.k., sheriff," he said heavily, "You've got me cornered. I admire a man who can do that to me. I'll listen to what you've got to say, but I won't promise anything, and I especially won't make any deals that force me to give up my land!"
"Well, let me tell you my plan," said Mitch cheerfully. He then reached behind one of the chairs in the room and pulled out one of the mysterious sacks the farmers had seen him bring to town a few days before. "This, gentlemen, is a special type of feed grain that cows just love. Under my plan, Joe Slug will plant a swath of this grain 30 feet wide all the way around his farm. That way, if any of Bomont's cows come up to the farm they'll have as much to eat as if the farm wasn’t here, since it only had a little bit of grass and sagebrush for them to graze on before Joe Slug came anyway.
"Hmmm ..." murmured Bomont, rubbing his jaw. "I suppose that might work. But what about the water hole?"
"I did a little testing on that hole," replied Mitch. "I found out that it's part of a natural underground spring that goes all the way underneath this whole part of the country. They call that an aquafir. So if you'll all pitch in—both farmers and cow hands—and help dig a new well about half a mile to the west, that will create a new water hole for the cattle while leaving this one here for Joe's farm. There's more than enough water for both places!"
"Golly!" said Joe in surprise. "I guess that would take care of the problem."
"Now, wait a minute," said Bomont. "I still haven’t agreed to anything! Just who is going to pay for this special feed grain anyway? It must cost a bit if it's that special."
"You’re going to pay, obviously," replied Mitch, "since your cows will be eating it. On the other hand, Joe will be planting and irrigating the grain. He'll do all the work to make it grow."
"I don't want to pay for grain," complained Bomont.
"And I don't want to spend my work time growing grain his cows are going to eat!" complained Joe.
"Would you rather go back to fighting each other?" replied Mitch. "That takes even more time, work and money. Besides, the grain only costs $5.00 a sack, and it grows like a weed. It won't take much money or time to make it grow."
"Well," grumbled Bomont, "maybe that's not too bad. Maybe that could actually work."
"I suppose so," agreed Joe reluctantly.
"And of course," added Mitch, "if either of you fails to do what you agreed to, you'll give up all claim to the land in question. That should give both of you en
ough motivation to do your duty."
After a bit more grumbling, Bomont and Joe shook hands on the deal. They even smiled at each other. Then the other farmers agreed to grow the special grain around their farms and to help dig the new well for Bomont's cattle. After that everybody just stood there and stared at each other in amazement that their problem had been solved so easily. Bomont even slapped all the farmers on the back and would have started chatting with them about farming conditions if Mitch hadn’t started offering everyone grated carrots. After the first offer, Bomont left immediately for his ranch, but promised the farmers he would return to talk with them another day.
And that is how Sheriff Mitch settled the range war between the ranchers and farmers with some special grain, and a little bit of grated carrot in a metal bowl.
Itchy Mitch and the Taming of Broken Jaw Junction Page 7
