Desert Conquest

by Chisholm, A M

  After dinner Clyde went to her room to prepare for the drive to Talapus. She inspected her limited wardrobe thoughtfully, finally selecting the plainest and most unpretentious attire in her possession; so that when she took a last look in the mirror she saw a girl wearing a panama hat, a white shirtwaist, and a tweed golf skirt. Kitty Wade, rather more elaborately costumed, eyed her critically.

  "Oh, bother!" she said. "This isn't fair. You make me feel all dressed up, but it's too much trouble to change."

  "I looked at it the other way—it was too much trouble to dress up," Clyde replied. "I don't suppose one needs to, out here. I'm going to be comfy, anyway."

  Kitty Wade forebore comment, but she smiled wisely to herself. Inwardly she reflected that simplicity of dress was Clyde's long suit. With her hair, complexion, and figure the less fussiness there was to distract the eye the better. And Mrs. Wade was inclined to attribute to the fortunate owner of these things a perfect knowledge of this fact.

  Mrs. Wade had the front seat, beside Casey, while Clyde sat with Wade. Clyde experienced a distinct feeling of disappointment. Wade was a good companion and a good friend, but—and the "but" was a big one.

  She found herself listening to Casey's voice, watching the set of his shoulders, noting the deep, living bronze of his skin. From time to time he turned, including them in the conversation, pointing out things of interest to Wade. But nevertheless she did not enjoy the drive.

  "I sent word that we were coming," said Casey, as they sighted the ranch. "That was in the interests of the ladies mostly."

  "Of course," Wade agreed. "Women always like people to find them all togged up, as if they never did a day's work in their lives. I catch it from Kitty if I bring any one home with me without due notice. If women only knew how much better they look in ordinary clothes!"

  Kitty Wade, turning her head to retort, surprised a quiet, enigmatic smile on Clyde's face. Their eyes met, and keen question and defiant answer leaped across the glance. Kitty Wade let the retort remain unspoken, and contemplated the nigh chestnut's ears, for her husband's last words had given her a clew.

  "Oh, Clyde Burnaby, Clyde Burnaby!" she said to herself with a little shake of the head. "Now I know. What a deep finesse! You think that this McCrae girl will put on her best country-maid—or country-made—finery; and you, in your studied simplicity, will show the better by contrast—to the masculine eye, at least. I give you full credit, my dear. Not one woman in a thousand would have thought of it. I shouldn't, and I know men better than you do. But why did you do it? Are you jealous of a girl you've never seen? And does that mean you care—seriously care—for our pleasant but likely impecunious Mr. Dunne?"

  She was still puzzling over this problem when they drove up to the house. Donald McCrae and his wife welcomed them, and he and Casey took the team to the stable. But as the others reached the welcome shade of the veranda Sheila emerged from the house and came forward. At sight of her Kitty Wade smiled to herself.

  For Sheila had not donned finery. She was clad in simple white, unrelieved by any touch of colour. Not a ring adorned her slim, brown hands. Her masses of glistening, brown hair were dressed low on her head, giving an effect almost girlish, softening the keenness of her face. She was as composed, as dignified, as essentially ladylike as Clyde herself.

  Clyde thanked her gracefully for the arrangement of their rooms. It was very good of her to take such trouble for strangers.

  "Oh, but I'm afraid I did that for Casey, and not for the strangers," laughed Sheila. "I hope old Feng didn't undo my work. He thought I was butting in. Anyway, Casey would have seen that you were comfortable, though some of his ideas of domestic arrangements are masculine, to say the least of them." She told the story of the hen, and set them laughing.

  Later Casey, having stabled the horses, came up with McCrae. "Well, Sheila, what's the good word?" he asked. "What yarns have you been telling Miss Burnaby?"

  "I was telling her of your poultry system."

  "Miss McCrae has been suggesting all sorts of things for our amusement," said Clyde; "from a dance to riding lessons."

  "I didn't say a word about lessons," Sheila protested.

  "But I need them," Clyde admitted. "I never pretend to know what I don't know."

  "Sheila can give most men lessons," said Casey. "The only objection I have is that I intended to instruct you myself."

  Clyde laughed. "Which offer shall I accept?"

  "Casey's," said Sheila promptly. "I won't be selfish. Besides, educational statistics prove that we women imbibe knowledge faster from men than from each other."

  Clyde darted a swift glance at her. But Sheila's face told nothing. If the words were intended to bear an added meaning she did not show it.

  "Statistics are good for something, at last," said Casey.

  "Give her Dolly," said Sheila. "Don't let her coax you into letting her try that old brute, Shiner. He's almost an outlaw."

  "Love me, love my horse!"

  The quotation seemed careless. Sheila's face told Clyde nothing.

  "'Like master, like horse' is more appropriate," said Sheila.

  "Oh, I'm not an outlaw—yet," he said, with just the slightest pause before the word.

  Slight though it was, Clyde noticed it; noticed, too, the instant shadow on Sheila's face, the quick contraction of her dark brows, the momentary silence, transient but utter. It was as if the chill and gloom of night had suddenly struck the summer's noonday.

  But in a moment the conversation was resumed, and became general. Sandy McCrae joined them, silent as usual, but evidently attracted by Clyde. Presently Sheila took Casey to diagnose the case of a favourite, sick collie.

  "My heavens, Casey, did you see the kid?" she asked. "I never knew him to look twice at a girl before."

  "Every boy has to start some time," he laughed. "She's well worth looking at."

  "That's so. Yes, she's very pretty, Casey."

  "I'm glad you like her."

  It was on the tip of her tongue to disclaim, but she checked herself. "She's different from what I expected. No airs. And she looks sensible. Is she?"

  "I think so."

  "Yes, I think so, too. She dresses very simply. I was prepared to be reduced to a condition of helpless feminine envy by her clothes. As it is, I feel quite of the same clay."

  "You don't need to envy anybody's clothes. That white dress looks good to me. I never saw you looking better."

  The rich blood crept up under her tanned cheeks. Such compliments were rare in her life. Casey himself seldom paid them. Frank friendship was very well; but now and then, womanlike, she longed for such current coin of courtesy.

  "Really, Casey?"

  "Of course," he assured her. "You know how to wear clothes. And you know you look particularly well in white. I've told you so before."

  "Once."

  "Half a dozen times."

  "No—once. I remember it very well, because you don't often notice what I have on. Perhaps that's lucky, too."

  "If it's you in the clothes, that's good enough."

  "That's just the trouble. You accept me as part of the everyday scenery. I might wear a blanket, for all you'd care."

  "I've seen some mighty becoming blanket costumes."

  "I'm not a klootch," she flashed. "I'm a white woman, and when I wear a becoming dress I like somebody to tell me so."

  "And didn't I just tell you?"

  "So you did—and I'll put a ring around the date. It's the first time you've condescended to pay me a compliment in a year. You men are the limit. You take it as a matter of course that a girl should be neat and spick and span. If she wasn't you'd notice it soon enough. It's easy for a girl like this Miss Burnaby. I don't suppose she ever did a day's work or anything useful in her life. She orders her clothes from the best places, and gets them fitted and sent home, and that's all there is to it. But how about me? I've got a hundred things to attend to every day. I've got to make my own clothes, or take a long chance on a mai
l-order house. That's why, when I do get anything that looks passable, I like it to be noticed."

  "That's so," he admitted. "That's natural. I never thought of it, Sheila, and that's the truth. Why didn't you tell me before?"

  "Oh, heavens! Casey, I'm sorry I did now. Why do men have to be told? I don't get taken this way often. Women and dogs have to be thankful for small mercies. Only a dog can shove a cold, wet nose into his master's hand and get a pat and a kind word; but a woman——"

  She broke off, colouring furiously. The red tide surged over cheeks and brow to the roots of her hair. For the first time, with him, she was afraid of being misunderstood.

  But Casey's perceptions, fairly acute where men and affairs were concerned, quite failed to grasp the situation. He saw only that Sheila, ordinarily sensible and dependable, had flown off the handle over something, and he metaphorically threw up his hands helplessly at the vagaries of women.

  "Well, well, now, never mind," he said, in blundering consolation. "You look well in anything. I've often noticed, but I didn't think you cared for compliments. Anyway"—he grasped eagerly at something safe—"anyway, you can't beat that white dress."

  She turned to him again, once more the everyday Sheila.

  "All right, old boy, we'll let it go at that. Forget it. And now I'll tell you something: I wore this white dress—absolutely the plainest thing I have—because I didn't want to come into a finery contest with Miss Burnaby. And now let's look at the old dog. I'm afraid he'll have to be shot."

  Farwell put in an appearance after supper. It was plain that the big engineer had not expected to find other guests; also that their presence embarrassed him. Quite unused to dissembling his feelings, he took no pains to hide his dislike for Dunne. Casey, on the other hand, was polite, suave, quiet, wearing the mocking smile that invariably exasperated the engineer.

  "You and Mr. Farwell are not friends," Clyde ventured on the way home.

  "He doesn't think much of me," Casey admitted. "I rub him the wrong way."

  "As you were doing to-night."

  "Was I?"

  "You know you were. Is there a private quarrel between you, apart from the water matter?"

  "Not exactly. But it would come to that if we saw much of each other."

  "Then I hope you won't. It's embarrassing to others."

  "I'm awfully sorry. It was very bad form, of course. But somehow I couldn't help it."

  "Never mind. The McCraes are affected by this water trouble, aren't they?"

  "As much as I am. You are surprised that Farwell goes there. I have never mentioned it to them, nor they to me. It's none of my business."

  "Nor of mine."

  "I didn't mean that."

  "I know you didn't. Still, I think I could guess why Mr. Farwell goes to Talapus."

  "So could I," said Casey dryly, and the subject dropped.

  But Kitty Wade came to Clyde's room for a chat before retiring. "Those McCraes," she said, "are very nice. Mr. McCrae is one of the real pioneers. He told us some of the most interesting things. How did you like Miss McCrae?"

  "I think she's a very nice, sensible girl. Good-looking, too."

  "H'm!" said Kitty Wade. "Yes, I think she is. Dresses nicely and simply. No imitation fine things. Shows the correct instinct. You and she might have been having a plain-clothes competition."

  Clyde did not respond. Kitty Wade resumed, after a brief pause: "I'll tell you one thing, Clyde; this man Farwell is in love with her."

  "I could see that, Kitty."

  "And she doesn't care for him."

  "I thought that, too."

  "I wonder," Kitty Wade went on, "if there is anything between her and Mr. Dunne? Do you suppose he and Mr. Farwell are jealous of each other? They were like two dogs with one bone."

  Clyde yawned. "Oh, mercy, Kitty," she said wearily, "ask me something easier. I wouldn't blame either of them. She seems to be a thoroughly nice girl."

  Kitty Wade on her way to her room nodded wisely. "You don't fool me a little bit, Clyde," she said to herself. "This Sheila McCrae is probably just as nice as you are, and you own up to it like a little lady. But all the same you hate each other; and, what's more, you both know it."

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Clyde lay stretched at length in sweet, odorous hay. There was no reason why she should not have taken the hammock in the shade of the veranda that morning, save that she wanted to be alone. Therefore she had taken a book and wandered forth. Behind the corrals she had come upon a haystack, cut halfway down and halfway across, and on impulse she had climbed up a short ladder and lain down. Her hands clasped behind her head, her book forgotten, she stared up into the blue sky, and dreamed daydreams. And then she went to sleep.

  She was aroused by the sound of hammering. Peeping over the edge of the stack, she recognized Tom McHale. McHale was putting a strand of wire around the stack, and as she looked he began to sing a ballad of the old frontier. Clyde had never heard "Sam Bass," and she listened to McHale's damaged tenor.

  "Sam was born in Indianner, it was his native home,

  And at the age of seventeen young Sam began to roam;

  And first he went to Texas, a cowboy for to be—

  He robs the stage at——"

  He stopped abruptly, and Clyde saw two mounted men approaching. They bore down on McHale, who lifted his coat from a rail, and put it on. To Clyde's amazement the action revealed a worn leather holster strapped to the inner side of the garment, and from it protruded the ivory butt of a six-shooter. McHale was apparently unarmed; in reality a weapon lay within instant reach of his hand.

  The two horsemen were roughly dressed. Each wore a gun openly at his belt. One was large, sandy-haired, gray-eyed. The other was dark, quick, restless, shooting odd, darting glances from a pair of sinister black eyes.

  "Is your name Dunne?" asked the first roughly.

  "Dunne?" queried McHale, as if the name were strange to him. "Did you say Dunne, or Doane?"

  "I said Dunne."

  "Oh," McHale responded. "Lemme think. No, I guess not. I never used that name that I remember of. No, partner, my name ain't Dunne."

  "We want Dunne. Where'll we find him?"

  "Why, now," said McHale, "that's a right hard question. You might find him one place, and then again you mightn't. I reckon I wouldn't be misleading you none if I was to tell you you'd find him wherever he's at."

  "You workin' for him?" the dark man put in quickly.

  "I was, a minute ago. Now I got a job with an inquiry office. Anything else I can tell you?"

  "No," said the dark man. "But you can tell Dunne that up to a minute ago he had a —— —— fool workin' for him!"

  Dead silence while a watch could tick off ten seconds. Clyde scarcely breathed. At different times in her life she had heard noisy quarrels in city streets, quarrels big with oath and threat. This was different. She experienced a sensation as though, even in the bright sunshine beneath the blue, unflecked summer sky where all was instinct with growth and health and life, she were watching a deathbed.

  The two strangers sat motionless, their eyes on McHale, their right hands resting quietly by their waists. McHale stood equally still, facing them, his eyes narrowed down to slits, his left hand holding the lapel of his coat, his right hand, a half-smoked cigarette between the first and second fingers, on a level with his chin. He expelled a thin stream of smoke from his lungs, and spoke:

  "I reckon you can tell him yourself. Here he come now."

  The eyes of the first man never shifted. The other instantly looked over his shoulder. McHale laughed.

  "You're an old-timer," he said to the gray-eyed man; "but him"—he jerked a contemptuous thumb at the second—"it's a wonder to me he ever growed up. Don't you do it no more, friend. Don't you never take your eyes off a man you've called a —— —— fool, or maybe the next thing they beholds is the Promised Land!"

  But his words had not been intended as a ruse. Casey was riding over on his little gray mar
e to see who the strangers were, and what they wanted.

  "This man tells me you're Dunne," said the gray-eyed man.

  "That's correct," Casey admitted.

  "My name is Dade; his name is Cross." He indicated his companion by a sidewise nod. "We've bought land from this here irrigation outfit. So have half a dozen other men, friends of ours. Now we can't get water."

  "Well?"

  "Well, the company puts it up that some of you fellows is to blame. You've cut the ditches so they won't carry. We've come to tell you that this has got to stop."

  "That's kind of you, anyway," Casey observed quietly. He and Dade eyed each other appraisingly.

  "What I want to make plumb clear," said the latter, "is that this don't go no more. It's no good. You'll leave the ditches alone, or else——"

  "Or else?" Casey suggested.

  "Or else we'll make you," said Dade grimly. "We want water, and we'll have it."

  "I wonder," said Casey, "if you are trying to hang a nice little bluff on me, Mr. Dade? Suppose, for instance, you have no land, and don't need any water."

  "I can show you my deed."

  "That's quite possible. All right, Mr. Dade. Is there anything more you want to say?"

  "I reckon that's all," said Dade. "If you'll say that the ditches will be let alone there'll be no trouble; if not, there will be."

  "What kind of trouble, Mr. Dade?"

  "You'll see when it comes."

  "Very well," said Casey. "Now, listen to me, Mr. Dade. You and your friend there and your whole outfit can go plumb. Get that? Every ranch here has water, and we're going to keep it. How we keep it is our own business. If you've bought land you may look to the company for water, and not to us. If you haven't bought land—if you're hired to come here to start something—why, let it start!"

  He and Dade looked straight into each other's eyes in the silence that followed. Cross made a sudden movement.

  "Be careful, partner!" McHale warned him in hard tones.

  Once more Clyde, an involuntary listener, felt the presence of a crisis, the chill of fate impending. But, as before, it passed.

  "You're barking up the wrong tree," said Dade. "Nothing starts—now. Better remember what I told you. Come on, Sam, we'll get going."