Desert Conquest

by Chisholm, A M

  "Great Scott!" Wade exclaimed, "you don't mean——"

  "You—you bonehead!" she cried, exasperated, and hustled him outside.

  Careless of them, Casey held Clyde, looking down into her eyes. "Sweetheart," he said, "you never told me!"

  "I was afraid."

  "Of raising false hopes?"

  "Not that, so much. But you wouldn't let me help you with money. And I was afraid that if you knew, you'd consider yourself under an obligation and wouldn't—wouldn't——"

  "Wouldn't what?"

  "Wouldn't be sensible and tell me you loved me," she said softly. "You're so funny about such things, Casey. You aren't angry now, are you?"

  "Angry?" he said. "Dear, I'd put the savings of years into this land—years when I'd worked like a very slave to get enough cash together to swing some good deal when I should see it. That was my stake. And the others! Why, girl, you've saved Talapus to the McCraes, and their ranches for the men who made them. We can't repay you; we won't try."

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  "Excuse me," said Wade, who had anticipated his entrance by many preliminary noises, "excuse me, my dear young friends, and, incidentally, accept my sincerest congratulations, felicitations, and—er—jubilations. Kindly listen to the following observations. Ahem! Far be it from me to horn in where I am as welcome as a wet dog. Nothing is farther from my desire than to short circuit two hearts——"

  "Come right in, old man," said Casey. "What's the trouble?"

  "I want my dinner," said Wade plaintively. "I Paul Revered on a shoestring. I Sheridaned without a commissariat. I brought the good news to Ghent on an empty tummy. Is thy servant a dog, that he should eat with a Chinaman? And I'd do that willingly; but, Casey, you know as well as I do that the only thing fit to drink Clyde's health in is in this room, and I warn you that if there is much more delay in doing so nothing which may occur hereafter will be either lucky or legal. While it is possibly true that a dinner of herbs where love is has a porterhouse, rare, and hashed brown spuds backed clean off the board, I submit, not being in love myself——"

  "What's that?" cried Kitty Wade from the door.

  "Why, it's a shame!" said Clyde. "He must be starving. It's all Casey's fault, too."

  "Wouldn't he break away?" asked Wade. "I remember——?"

  "Harrison!" cried Kitty, warningly.

  "Well, then, do I eat?" he demanded.

  "Yes. Anything to keep you quiet. I'll get your dinner myself."

  Half an hour later Wade pushed back his chair with a sigh of satisfaction, lit a cigar, and joined the others.

  "I feel better," he announced. "A child could play with me in comparative safety. Now let me tell you what else I discovered. In the first place, Cross is dead. I was talking to Shiller. He says that Tom wasn't to blame—corroborates his story, in fact, in every material particular. So Tom's all right on that score. My advice to him would be to come in and have his trial over."

  "That isn't what's bothering him so much. It's these friends of Cross's. I don't blame him. Some sheriffs are mighty weak-kneed about such things."

  "Well, I'm told that officers will be after him. Now as to your brother, Miss McCrae: Glass and Pugh are starting out to find him as soon as they get an outfit. Likely they've got started now."

  "But they don't know where he is. That Glass—I should think he'd get lost if he left a trail."

  "Pugh is different. They may get another man or two."

  "I hope they don't find him," said Sheila gravely.

  "So do I," Wade concurred. "I don't suppose a prosecution would be pushed now; but he resisted an officer, and anyway I wouldn't like to see him under arrest."

  "You don't understand. Sandy wouldn't submit quietly."

  "You think he'd try to bluff them again?"

  "He isn't a bluff," said Casey. "The kid is serious-minded. That's the trouble. However, I've sent Tom word about Dade. Sandy may be with him; and Tom is cool. When Simon comes in we'll know more, and send him out again if he knows where the boy is."

  Sheila declared that she must be going home. She refused Casey's offer to drive her over. She wanted to take the edge off Beaver Boy. His actions rankled in her mind. He needed a lesson, and she was going to give him one. And she refused absolutely to allow Casey to ride with her.

  He had her horse saddled, and was giving a final pull at the latigos when she came out in her riding clothes.

  "Cinch him up tight," she commanded. "Take a good pull at it; he's getting too foxy."

  Beaver Boy grunted as Casey put his strength on the strap and the broad cinch bit into his glossy skin.

  "And that's loose a-plenty," said his mistress. "He blows himself up like a turkey gobbler. I need a block and tackle to cinch him right." She shaded her eyes with her hand. "Somebody coming. I'll wait and see who it is."

  Much to their surprise, it was none other than Farwell. He rode briskly, head up, shoulders back, with the air of a man whose mind is made up. But he refused to get off his horse, asking Sheila's permission to ride with her.

  "I wanted to tell you," he said, "that you'll have water for the summer anyway. I've just had a wire from headquarters to shut down, and to turn the normal flow of the river back into its old channel." He smiled grimly. "They didn't know that the elements had attended to that. Thought you'd like to know. Might save you worry. Don't know the company's reason, and it's none of my business. I'm paying off the whole outfit to-night, including the men we were speaking of. To-morrow I'll pull out myself. Glad to do it."

  "Sorry to have you go," said Casey.

  "You say it all right, but I know better," said Farwell bluntly. "I don't want to keep Miss McCrae waiting. Will you shake hands?"

  Casey put out his hand. It was caught, thumb crotch to thumb crotch, in a grip of steel. He laughed as he threw every ounce of strength into his own fingers.

  "Good man," said Farwell. "I like a man with a handgrip, and you've got it. Any time you're ready, Miss McCrae?"

  Sheila went up as lightly as a boy. Beaver Boy was off as she touched the saddle. Farwell followed. They melted into the distance, galloping side by side, the dust, in spite of the night's rain, puffing up from the flying hoofs.

  At the end of a mile Beaver Boy's exuberance had not subsided. He thrashed out with his heels, and gave a tentative pitch. Farwell, who had been riding slightly behind, ranged up alongside.

  "I should think you'd get a quiet horse," he said.

  "I'll make this one quiet!" snapped Sheila, for she was still sore, and the hard pace had told on her temper through her bruises. "He's actually beginning to think he can do as he likes with me." Beaver Boy shied to show his independence, and she slashed him mercilessly with the quirt, setting her teeth as he plunged. "You would, would you, you brute? I'll show you!"

  Farwell, riding in, grabbed for the headstall.

  "Get away!" she flamed. "I'll fight this out with him now."

  The question of supremacy took five minutes to settle. At the end of that time Beaver Boy relapsed ignominiously into servitude, smarting from the quirt and dripping sweat. Sheila put all her strength into a final cut. The big bay took it meekly with what was almost a sigh and a trembling quiver.

  Farwell had watched the struggle with anxiety. "You won't have any more trouble with him for a while. He's afraid of you now."

  "He'd better be. He's been obstinate for months, getting worse all the time. He had some notion in his head that he was merely allowing me to ride him. He did what he liked for a while last night when I was shaken up, and he had to have his lesson. No use letting any one else give it to him. He had to be shown that I was able to do it."

  "That's so," said Farwell, "that's sense. The idea of you going out in the storm last night on that brute. No other girl would have done it. It was fine, but it was foolish."

  "Nonsense! I'm not afraid of rain or a horse. Could I do anything else? It was up to me."

  "Maybe. Well, you heard what I told Dunne about the water. T
hat ought to be satisfactory to all you people."

  "Naturally I'm glad."

  "I'm going away," he continued. "Also, I'm chucking up my job. I'm sorry I ever took it. It was sheer waste of time. I'm going to work for myself now. I hoped I would catch you at Dunne's place. I wanted to say good-bye."

  "I am sorry you are going."

  "That's what Dunne said—and he didn't mean it. Do you?"

  "I usually mean what I say."

  "Well, I didn't know. I wouldn't blame you if you were glad. I behaved like a—well, like a blackguard once."

  "We needn't talk about that," said Sheila quietly. "That's over; I don't think of it."

  "But I do. I'm rough, but I'm not that kind—usually. You let me down easy. If I could undo it I would; but I can't."

  "No, it can't be undone. Why talk about it?"

  "Because I keep thinking about it. I've kept away, as you wanted me to—and because I was ashamed of myself. Honestly, I've tried to do the best I could for your people—for your father. I tried my best to be a friend. And the end of it was that I started gossip, and you told me to keep away. That was pretty hard lines. It made me angry. And then I was jealous of Dunne."

  "He is going to marry Miss Burnaby."

  "Lucky devil!" growled Farwell dejectedly. "Things run smooth for him. I'll bet he doesn't think half as much of her as I do of you."

  Sheila smiled for the first time. "You wouldn't tell her that."

  "I'd tell it to anybody. It's a fact. Why, look here: I'm a practical man; I've no more imagination than a stump. And yet I've lain awake nights pretending to myself that you had let me kiss you willingly. How's that?"

  Sheila laughed softly. "That's certainly going some, Mr. Farwell!"

  "Well, it's what I do, anyway. It's about all the consolation I've got."

  "Is it? Couldn't you get something better than that?"

  "I could if you'd give me half a chance," he declared. "You turned me down hard and cold. There's a fine show for consolation, isn't there?"

  "Perhaps some other girl——?" she suggested demurely.

  "No!" Farwell rapped out bluntly. "I don't want any other girl. I don't like other girls. They make me tired. I'd rather work than fuss with them. It's easier. If I can't have you I don't want anybody."

  Sheila laughed again. The colour was high in her cheeks, and a strange light was shining in her clear eyes. She shot a glance at him, half amused, half serious.

  "And if you had me you'd be tired of me in no time. I'm just plain girl."

  "Plain girl nothing! You're the prettiest——"

  "I'm not; I'm not even average."

  "And the best and the most sensible and the pluckiest one I ever saw," he pursued, unheeding. "Don't tell me; I know. I've seen whole rafts of women. Dolls! Flirts! Gigglers! Fainters! Talking slush and thinking slop! Soft, too, like dough. Eating filthy coloured and flavoured glucose by the pound. Yah! Not a sane idea, or a sound digestion, or a healthy body in the bunch. And as for dress, the average woman piles a lot of truck on her like a klootch at a potlatch, and cinches herself up in a——"

  "Hush!" said Sheila.

  "Huh!" said Farwell. "Why shouldn't I call things by their names? I never could see——"

  "You aren't supposed to see. That's plenty. I won't be lectured on the follies of my sex."

  "You're different from the others," said Farwell. "That's just it. You've got ideas apart from dress and gossip, the same as a man has. You're in good hard condition physically. You don't giggle, and titter, and make eyes, and expect a man to talk like a da—er—ah—that is, you don't expect a lot of silly compliments. I've never seen anybody like you. Talk of another girl! Bah! I couldn't stand one in the same house. It's you or no one."

  "I don't think I'd wear well, Mr. Farwell. You'd get tired of me."

  "No, I wouldn't; no, I wouldn't. I know what I'm talking about. I tell you, I love you, Sheila. Do you think it's easy to say good-bye and leave you? It's the hardest job I ever had. It's—it's—oh, it's hell, that's what it is. I used to love work just for the work's sake. But now, to think of grubbing away year after year, to get money that I can't use, that I don't want—that can't get me what I want! Oh, Lord! the hopeless years ahead! What's the good of them? What's the use? I wish I'd never seen this place—or you."

  His deep voice rose, and fell, and rumbled uncertainly, shaken by feeling. He slouched dejectedly in his saddle, looking straight ahead as if his eyes beheld the emptiness of the years to come.

  "Then why do you say good-bye?" said Sheila.

  Farwell started, half turning in the saddle. "Why? Because it's best. What's the use of hanging around? I have to take my medicine, don't I? I can take it easier away from here."

  "I'm not so sure," she said hesitatingly, "that there will be any medicine to take."

  Farwell's eyes opened wide as he stared at her.

  "What do you mean by that? Don't fool with me, Sheila, for Heaven's sake. It's too serious a matter."

  "Yes, it's serious," she agreed. She faced him frankly, the rich blood mounting beneath the tan of her cheeks. "What's the use of beating around the bush? When you kissed me I hated you. I struck you. But when Sandy came—and afterward—you seemed a good deal of a man. And so—I don't know—but it need not be good-bye for good."

  CHAPTER XXIX

  In the evening a stranger drove up to Chakchak. He was long and lean, and his hair was flecked with gray. His eyes were blue and clear, set rather wide apart, holding a calm, disconcerting stare. His clothes were much worn, frayed, and dusty. His movements were quiet and deliberate, and so was his speech.

  "I am lookin'," he said, "for Mr. Dunne."

  "That's my name," said Casey.

  "Then I'd like a little private talk with you. My name is Dove; I'm actin' sheriff of this county while Fuller's sick." Evidently Acting Sheriff Dove was a man of direct speech.

  "Glad to meet you, sheriff," said Casey. "Come right into my quarters. I've guests at the house, and I'm bunking here. Have a cigar, and tell me what I can do for you."

  The sheriff lit a cigar very deliberately, and carefully pinched out the flame of the match with his fingers, surest of signs of one accustomed to the plains and woods. He removed the cigar, eyed it with approval, replaced it, and turned to his host.

  "That's a right good smoke. I come to see you about this killin'. This here McHale worked for you, I'm told."

  "He's my foreman."

  "Where is he now?"

  "I don't know."

  "He come back here after the killin', collected up his outfit, got a pack horse, and made his get-away?"

  "Yes."

  "Told you about it, maybe?"

  "Yes."

  "But not where he was goin'?"

  "No."

  "Still, you can make a tol'able guess."

  "I'm not guessing," Casey replied. "That killing was square, sheriff."

  "I don't say it wasn't," Dove admitted. "I got nothing to do with that. My rule is, when there's a killin', to bring in the man who done it, and let the law 'tend to his case."

  "Good rule, theoretically."

  "And so," Sheriff Dove continued, with calm finality, "I'm out to bring in this here McHale."

  Casey thereupon gave Tom's reasons for leaving, and expressed his opinion that he would come in and give himself up within a short time. The sheriff listened, smoking impassively.

  "I dunno but what McHale acted pretty sensible," he commented. "He needn't worry about my not protectin' him. I've give a prisoner a gun and let him help stand off a mob before now. Likewise, I've got lead in my system doin' it. However, that ain't the point. I can't wait 'round for him to come in. I got to get him. There's been quite a bunch of things happenin' down in this country, far as I can hear, that ain't none too law-abidin'."

  Casey merely smiled genially.

  "Mind you, I ain't no busybody," said the sheriff. "I get trouble enough in a regular way without huntin' for it. I've been hearin' th
ings, but there bein' no complaint I've sat tight. Up to this Cross killin' nobody's been hurt. But that's serious and brings me in to take a hand. One of my deputies, Jack Pugh, is after a young feller named McCrae. There's lots of things don't speak well for respect for the law down here. I represent the law, and what hits it hits me."

  "I understand. You've been straight with me, sheriff, and I appreciate it. I don't know exactly where McHale is, but I think if you found him and gave him a straight, decent talk he'd come in without any trouble. He doesn't want any. And I think you'll find him somewhere in the hills. That's all I can tell you now."

  "Him and this young McCrae is tillikums, they tell me," the sheriff suggested. "You think maybe they've met up?"

  "They may. There's a chance of it."

  The sheriff considered. "This McCrae is a leetle mite headstrong, I'm told. Sorter apt to act rash."

  "I'm afraid so."

  The sheriff shook his head regretfully. "I'd ruther deal with a sure 'nough bad man than with a young feller like that," he observed, "They lack judgment, as a rule. I'm told he savvies a gun right well?"

  "He's a centre shot and quick," said Casey. "And, remember this, sheriff, if you run across him: he doesn't bluff. When he goes after a gun he goes after it to shoot with. I tell you this because I don't want to see anybody hurt. There's no harm in him, handled right, but he's a kid, and you want to make allowances."

  "I'm obliged to you, and I'll do it. Jack Pugh and Glass have started out after him already. They allow to prospect 'round in the hills till they find him. That's what I'll do with McHale."

  Casey considered, and suddenly came to a decision.

  "Anybody going with you?"

  "No."

  "Don't you want a deputy?"

  "Any time I got to pack a deputy 'round with me to bring in one man there'll be a job open," the sheriff returned grimly. "I don't keep no corral full of deputies. I got Pugh and another, and they're both busy. I allow not to get lost. I've been out by myself before now."

  "The reason I ask," said Casey, "is that I'd like to go with you myself. The boys might listen to me, and not to you. Mind, I'm not offering to guide you to them. You find your own trail. But I'll make all the peace talk I can if you do find them. Besides, there's this Dade. If he goes after Tom, there will be trouble. It's a feud. I declare myself in on it."