Desert Conquest; or, Precious Waters

by A. M. Chisholm

  CHAPTER XIII

  Casey Dunne crossed from the Coldstream Supply Company's store--whichwas also the post office--to Bob Shiller's hotel. His pockets bulgedwith mail, for it was his first visit to town since the destruction ofthe dam a week before, and there was an accumulation of letters,newspapers, and periodicals. Ever since then he had been irrigating,throwing upon his thirsty fields every drop of water he could get.

  As he came upon the veranda, he saw Shiller in conversation with astranger.

  "Oh, Casey," said Shiller, "I want you to shake hands with Mr. Glass.Mr. Glass--Mr. Dunne. Mr. Glass," the genial Bob went on, "has somenotion of locating here if he can get a place to suit him. He likes theland, and he likes the climate; but the recent--the events--er--the waythings shape at present has a _leetle_ undecided him. Anything Mr.Dunne tells you, Mr. Glass, will be straight. He has land to burn, andone of our best ranches. Yes. I'll just leave you to talk it overtogether." And so saying, he executed a masterly retreat.

  Glass was a mild, colourless, middle-aged man, attired in wornhand-me-down garments. His blue eyes, clear and direct enough, seemedto hold a little of the pathetic apprehension and appeal of a lostpuppy. He hesitated when he spoke, repeatedly qualifying hisstatements. His was the awkwardness of the man who, having spent hislife in familiar surroundings in some small community, suddenly findshimself in new places among strangers. And, lacking adaptability, isconstrained and ill at ease.

  "You see, Mr. Dunne, it's this way with me," he began. And, appearingto remember something suddenly, he asked: "Hadn't we better have adrink?"

  "Not unless you need it in your business," said Casey. "Sit down andsmoke a cigar with me and tell me your trouble."

  "Well, I'd just as soon," said Glass, plainly relieved. "I don't drinkmuch myself. My wife don't like it. It's a bad example for thechildren. But I thought that out here, maybe from what I'd heard----"

  "Current Western fiction!" Casey laughed. "No, we don't drink everytime we shake hands. Couldn't stand it. Well, what can I do for you?"

  And thereupon Mr. Glass unbosomed himself ramblingly, with much detail,which included a sketch of his life and family history. Casey saw thatShiller had unloaded a bore on him.

  Glass, it appeared, hailed from Maine, from the vicinity of one of the"obscots" or "coggins." He had followed various callings--carpenter,market gardener, and grocer--with indifferent success; but he hadsucceeded in accumulating a few thousand dollars. His eldest girl wasnot well. Consumption ran in her mother's family. The doctor hadordered a dryer climate, a higher altitude. For some years Glass hadbeen thinking of migrating westward; but he had stuck in the narrowgroove, lacking the initiative to pull up stakes and see for himselfthe land in which others had prospered. This sickness had decidedhim--and here he was.

  He liked the climate, which he was sure would be just the thing for hisdaughter; and he liked the land. But here was the point--and it was thepoint which was worrying Sleeman grayheaded. There was trouble betweenthe ranchers and the land company. Not that it was for him to say whowas right or wrong. But there _was_ trouble. Now, he was a man of smallmeans, and he was forced to put all his eggs in one basket. Which wasto say, that if he bought land, and subsequently was unable to getwater for it, he would be ruined. Also he had heard that the rancherswere unfriendly to those who bought land from the company.

  "And I'm a man that has kept out of trouble all my life, Mr. Dunne," heconcluded plaintively. "I'm on good terms with everybody at home, and Iwouldn't want, right at the start-off, as you might say, to haveanybody think I was trying to take water away from him. And yet I likethe country. I thought maybe you could advise me what to do. It seemslike a lot of gall asking you, too; you having land for sale and methinking of buying the company's. But, then, I saw their advertising.It was only right I should go to them, wasn't it?"

  "Of course," said Casey. "I haven't any land for sale now. I'm holdingwhat I have. But as to advising you, it's a difficult thing. Here's thesituation: The amount of the total water supply is limited. The railwayclaims the right to take it all, if it likes. We claim enough toirrigate our properties. Right there we lock horns. There is a lawsuitjust starting; but the Lord only knows which way it will be settled, orwhen. And now you know as much about it as I do."

  "It don't look good," said Glass, shaking his head. "No, sir, it don'tlook good to me. And here's another thing. They tell me that there wastrouble out here a ways the other night. I mean with the company's dam.Of course, I don't know anything about it myself; it's just what I'veheard. I hope you don't mind me speakin' of it."

  "Not in the least. Well, what about it, Mr. Glass?"

  "It was a turrible risky thing to do--to blow up a dam," said Glass."It'd be against the law, wouldn't it? Of course, I don't say it was.It might not be. I don't claim to know, and likely whoever done it hadreasons. All the same, I wouldn't choose to be mixed up in doin's likethat."

  "Good thing to keep out of," Casey agreed.

  "I wouldn't want anything of mine to be blown up."

  "But who would blow up anything of yours?"

  "I don't say anybody'd do it, of course," Glass protested hastily."Only, you see, men that'd blow up a dam are--I mean, if I bought landoff of the company and started in to use water and farm, they mightblame me. I wouldn't want to get my neighbours down on me, Mr. Dunne."

  "Does that mean you think that some of your prospective neighbours blewup the dam?"

  "No, no," Glass disclaimed, in a flurry. "I don't know who did it, ofcourse. I'm not saying anybody did. Only somebody must of. That's justcommon sense. You'll admit that yourself."

  "Why, yes, that's a pretty safe conclusion," Casey agreed. "I don'tthink you need worry about that, though. The only point is whether thecompany will be able to keep an agreement to supply you with water. Ican't tell you whether they will or not. If you buy you take a chance.If you bought from me, you'd take almost the same chance."

  "I don't know what to do," said Glass, picking nervously at hiswhite-metal watch chain. "It's hard to tell--there's so many things tobe considered. I can't afford to lose money. This irrigation's new tome. I never saw it working. Would you mind if I came out to your farmand sort of looked around? I could learn a lot that way. Maybe if youhad time, you could explain what I didn't understand? But, then, Iwouldn't want to trouble you."

  But Casey Dunne was already tired of Glass, of his timidity, hisindecision, his self-effacement, his continual air of apology forexistence.

  "Come any time," he said. "Glad to see you. Sorry I can't do any morefor you; but you'll have to decide for yourself."

  "Yes, I know," Glass agreed dismally. "I'll look around first. I'mobliged to you. You--you're sure you won't have a drink? No. Well, Iguess I'll go in and write a letter to my wife. I write to her twice aweek. I'll see you later, maybe."

  Casey nodded, glad to be rid of him. He put his feet on the rail andproceeded to go through his correspondence, which, though bulky, wasnot especially important.

  "The mails would be a whole lot lighter if it wasn't for fake oil andcement propositions and special offers of the world's best authors," hegrumbled. "Promoters and publishers seem to consider the small postoffice the natural breeding ground for suckers. Maybe they're right,too. Hello! Here's something different."

  It was a large, square, white envelope, perfectly plain, but ofaristocratic finish and thickness.

  "Wedding--for the drinks!" growled Casey. "Not so different, afterall." He ripped it open ruthlessly with his thumb. "Here's where I getset back a few dollars starting another domestic plant. Blamed if it'sany better than--hello!"

  It was not a wedding announcement. Instead, it was a check. The amountthereof was the surprising sum of eighty cents, exchange added; and thesignature, firm, square, clear-cut as lettering, was "_Clyde Burnaby_."

  "Now what the devil?" Casey exclaimed, and jerked out the accompanyingletter.

  It was merely a short, friendly note. Miss Burnaby inclosed her checkfor one year's in
terest, at 8 per cent. on the loan from Mr. Dunne. Shereferred to the Wades. Gave an item or two of unimportant personalnews. Hoped that his ranch was flourishing, and that he was well: andwas his very cordially.

  In feminine fashion followed a postscript:

  Kitty Wade tells me that you are having trouble with some company which is taking water that you need for your ranch. I hope it isn't serious trouble, though she hinted as much. Do you care to tell me about it?

  Casey Dunne sat for some minutes, the check and letter across hisknees, while he gazed unblinkingly through the hot sunshine. It wassome time since he had given Clyde Burnaby more than an occasionalthought; his immediate affairs had been too pressing. Now the vision ofher, as he had seen her last, rose before his eyes, and he found it apleasant recollection. He, whose life since childhood had been passedin the outposts and beyond them, treasured the memories of the fewoccasions when chance had permitted him to sit with his own kind, totalk to them, to live as he would have lived had not fate forced him tohoe his own row, and chosen for him a row in the new lands.

  Of the women he had met in these rare incursions he could recall nonewho pleased him as well as Clyde Burnaby. Her interest in his affairspleased him also. He recalled her as she had sat across the aisle inthe Pullman, her absolute frigidity to the advances of the would-beLothario, her haughty stare when she had suspected him of like intent,her perfect composure during the holdup. Little things like that showedthe stuff a girl was made of. Nothing foolish or nervous or hystericalabout her. And then, subsequently, when he had met her on her ownground, she had endeavoured to put him at his ease. Funny that, but heappreciated it, nevertheless. And she could talk. She didn't giggle andask inane questions. Nor did she treat him as some sort of a naturalcuriosity, who might be expected to do something shocking butentertaining at any moment. She was sensible as--well--as sensible asSheila McCrae herself.

  And that, Casey reflected, was by way of being a high compliment; forSheila had more sense than most men. He would take her opinion on anysubject as well worth consideration. She and Clyde Burnaby were twoyoung women very much above the ordinary run--in his opinion, at least.

  Idly he wondered if chance would ever bring them together. Unlikely.Because he had nothing else to do at the moment, he amused himself by aprocess of transposition, of transmigration. He imagined Clyde Burnabyin Sheila's place, riding Beaver Boy over the brown swells, along thenarrow trails and abrupt rises of the foothills, raising severalhundred chickens, helping with the housework, the mending--all thedaily feminine chores that fell to the lot of a rancher's womenkind.Would she be as good a friend to him as Sheila had been? And he fanciedSheila in her place--tailor-mades and evening gowns instead of ridingskirts, Paris instead of pony hats, with nothing in particular to dobut have a good time and spend money. Make good? Of course she would.She was clean-cut, thoroughbred, smart as a whip. Perhaps she wasn'tquite as good-looking as Miss Burnaby; but, after all, that was largelya matter of taste. She was a different style.

  He looked at the check lying on his knee, and laughed at the idea ofinterest on ten dollars. He had forgotten all about that conceit, butshe had not. He would frame the check--yes, that was what he would do.In time there would be quite a bunch of them--that is, if sheremembered to send them. Well, anyway, he would have to acknowledge it,and he might as well do it at once.

  He went indoors and began to write. He had intended but a brief note,but in construction it lengthened. With him letter writing was never aneffort. He wrote as easily as he talked, colloquially, without anyattempt at style or set phrase. Soon he found himself terselydescribing the water situation, forecasting the probabilities. As thesewere not too cheering, he frowned and added an optimistic sentence ortwo for general effect. He concluded with a hope that she would sometime honour his country with a visit, when his ranch and all itcontained--including its owner--would be entirely at her service.

  On his way to post the letter he passed Glass, still struggling withhis own composition. That poor devil! A perfect type of incompetent. Hewas too slow and timid for the West--too old to learn the lessons ofself-reliance and adaptability of a new land. However, that was his ownaffair. If he would work he could make a living, and that was all thathe or those like him could make anywhere.

  Dunne strolled down to the station to mail his letter in the box there;and, as he turned the corner of the building, he came full upon Farwelland another burly individual in conversation with Quilty, the stationagent.

  "Tell them to start a tracer from the other end after those carnumbers," Farwell was commanding; "and you start one from here. I'vegot to have them right away; work's at a standstill. Those cursedfatheads in the freight department don't know enough to shovel ballast.Get after them with a sharp stick."

  "I'll do me best for ye," Quilty promised; "but freight on this linecomes whin ut comes."

  "It will come when I want it, or somebody will lose a job," saidFarwell. "I'm not the ordinary consignee, and you can tell them that,too."

  "I'll do that same," said Quilty; "but I misdoubt if a cyar wheel turnsthe faster for ut. I mind back in eighty-five--or maybe 'twaseighty-three ut was--whin O'Brien--'Flapjack' O'Brien they called himthen, though he's climbed high enough since--well, whin O'Brien was aplain, iveryday, thievin' conthractor, and a dom bad wan at that, hehad a nephew named Burke that married a Finnegan--or maybe ut wasFinucane--whose father pulled ould Sivinty-six, a wood-burnin'monsthrosity iv an ingin' that be th' grace iv God an' a full sand boxmight be good for a 3-per-cent grade anny dry day in summer but aFriday. Annyways, as I started to tell ye, Danny Powers fired forFinnegan or Finucane, whichever ut was, and him and this Burke----"

  But Farwell cursed Powers and Burke. "You burn the wires getting thosecars for me!" he ordered. "What the devil do I care for all thoseconstruction-days micks? You talk too much. Get busy!" With which heturned and walked away with his companion.

  "Pleasant gentleman, Corney!" Casey ventured.

  The little station agent winked. "Th' black dog is on him sure enough,"he observed. "Since his dam was blowed up, he has th' civil word fornobody. Listen, now, Casey. Somebody will pay for that night's work."

  "I don't quite get you, Corney."

  "Oh, divil th' fear iv yez not gettin' me. I'm not speakin' now in meofficial capacity; for praise God this dam is outside th' duties iv mejurisdiction. I'm tellin' ye as a friend."

  "I know, Corney; but tell me a little plainer."

  "Plainer is ut? Yez are a man grown. Do yez think yez can crim'nallyan' wid conthributory vi'lence aforethought dynymite me employers'property, an' no comeback at all? Have sinse!"

  "Hold on," said Casey. "Go slow, Corney." But Mr. Quilty dismissed thispreliminary objection with a wave of his hand.

  "Thim's figgers iv speech. I assume yez are innocent until yez arecaught. Faix, it's not me'd give th' hot tip iv a warnin' to acrim'nal. But whisper now! Th' comp'ny is for siftin' this outrageousoutrage to th' bottom, an' then liftin' th' bottom to look under it.Havin' put its hand to th' plow, it will l'ave no stone unturned toprobe th' mysthry. Ye seen that felly wid Farwell. He's th' railwaydetective!"

  "Meaning that they're out to round up somebody, eh?" said Casey. "Allright, Corney; let 'em go to it."

  "In me official capacity," said Mr. Quilty, looking him sternly in theeye, "I hope th' dirty blagyards is caught red-handed and soaked hardfor th' shameless and di'bolical atrocity they have perpetuated. Forsuch abandoned miscreants hangin' is too dom ladylike a punishment. Iwant yez to understand me official sintimints in me official capacityclearly. Yez may quote me exact words if ye feel so disposed."

  "In your official capacity," said Casey, "your official sentiments doyou great credit."

  "I'm glad ye think so," said Mr. Quilty; "for in me private capacity,speakin' widout prejudice to me salary and as a true son iv dear, ould,dirty Dublin to a friend, me private sintimints is these: Th' man thatinvinted dynymite should have a set iv goold medals th' size iv acompound'
s dhrivers. But if iver ye mintion me private sintimints to asoul, I'll have yer life!"