by Zane Grey
‘You’re going to stay all night, John,’ Howard called after him. ‘Put your horse in the barn.’
But Carr swung down at the yard gate and tied his horse there.
‘Can’t this time,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to ride on, Al.’
Thus each made his pretence, less to his friend than to himself, that everything was all right. They sought to be natural and failed, and knew that they had failed. Carr waited for Howard, smoking at the gate; Howard hastened up to the house and went in. He struck a match, lighted the table lamp and filled the pipe lying beside it. Carr tossed his hat to the table and sat down. Their eyes roved about the familiar room. Here were countless traces of both men; Carr had lived here, Howard lived here now. Helen had been here, and she too had left something to mark her passing. They both saw it. It was only a bluebird’s feather, but Alan had set it in a place of conspicuousness just above the fireplace. Even into a room which had been home to each, which they had held must always be home to both, something of Helen came like a little ghost.
‘You’ll have use for some money about now,’ said Howard abruptly. He drew out the table drawer; inside were scraps of paper, a fountain-pen, a cheque-book and some old stubs. ‘Time’s up for a payment, too. I sold a pretty fair string the other day.’
‘I could use a little cash,’ Carr admitted carelessly. ‘I’ve got in pretty deep with the Quigley mining outfit. I made Longstreet a proposition—I am a trifle short, I guess,’ he concluded lamely.
‘I see,’ responded Howard, whereas he saw nothing at all very clearly. He busied himself with his pen, shook it savagely, opened his cheque-book. ‘Ten thousand this trip, wasn’t it?’
Carr hesitated.
‘I had figured on twelve five,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t that the amount due now?’
Howard hunted through the back of the drawer and finally found a little memorandum book. He turned through the pages upon which he had scribbled notes of purchases of cattle and horses and of ranch equipment, passed on to a tabulation of his men’s wages, and finally stopped at a page devoted to his agreement with his friend.
‘Here you are,’ he said when he had found it. ‘Ten thousand, due on the eleventh of the month. I’m pretty near a week late on it, John,’ he smiled.
Carr however had his own note-book with him; readily he found his own entry.
‘I’ve set it down here as twelve thousand five hundred,’ he said quietly. ‘You remember we talked over a couple of methods of payment, Al. But,’ and he snapped the rubber band about his book and dropped it into his pocket, ‘what’s the odds? Let it go at ten.’
‘No,’ said Howard. ‘Not if you’ve counted on more.’ A flush ran up into his face and his eyes were inscrutable. He was conscious of being in the absurd mood to note trifles; John had come with his memoranda, John had meant to ask him for the money. ‘I’d just as lief pay twenty-five hundred extra now as at any time.’ And with lowered head and sputtering pen he wrote the cheque.
‘I don’t want to inconvenience you, Al,’ Carr accepted the cheque with certain reluctance. ‘Sure it’s all right?’
‘Sure,’ said Howard emphatically. He tossed the pen and book into the drawer. Now the awkwardness of the silence upon them was more marked than ever before. Carr tarried only a few minutes, during which both men were ill at ease. Only an expressionless ‘So long!’ passed between them when he got up to go. They might see each other again before Carr went East; they might not. Howard went back to his chair at the table, staring moodily at the bluebird feather.
Nothing of the instinct of a clerk had ever filtered into the habits of Alan Howard. His system of books was simple. He set down in one place the amounts which came in; in another place those expended. He added and subtracted. He deposited his money in the bank and checked it out. He must bank more when the last was gone. That was about all. It was seldom that he knew just how far his assets were above his liabilities or below. But to-night he knew that he had strained his account. He had counted on paying ten thousand and had paid twelve thousand five hundred. He turned first to his cheque-book, which had not been balanced for a couple of months. No adept at figures he spilled much ink, scratched out many calculations and went through them again, grew hot and exasperated and finally before he got anywhere was in a mood to damn everything that came under his hand. It was midnight when he had assembled upon one sheet of paper an approximately truthful statement of his financial condition. And then he sat back limply and lifted his eyebrows and whistled.
Within something less than thirty days he must take up a note which Pony Lee held for a thousand dollars; Pony would want the money and had said as much when he had advanced it. Then there were the calves, due within the week, from French Valley; Tony Vaca was rushing them, was selling at a very low figure and would want his money on the nail. Well, he must have it. That was another seven hundred dollars. There was another note held by Engle, down in San Juan. The banker might extend it; he might not. It was for fifteen hundred dollars, and would fall due within sixty days. On top of this were the running expenses: the ranch was working full-handed, the men would want their wages a week from Saturday: this was Tuesday. He turned to their accounts; three or four of them had not drawn down last month. They would all want their money when next pay-day came. He estimated the amount. In the neighbourhood of seven hundred dollars. He totalled all of these forthcoming payments. The aggregate was close to four thousand dollars. And his cheque-book, balanced to date, indicated that he had overdrawn to make the payment to Carr. He could have paid the ten thousand and have had something over two thousand in cold cash to run on; now he had not enough in the San Juan bank to make his own cheque good.
‘If Carr had only been satisfied with the ten thousand,’ he muttered. ‘Or if he had given me warning ahead that he wanted the extra twenty-five hundred. Now what?’
None of these issues were clouded, and in due time he decided upon all points. He gave up all thought of bed, made himself a pot of coffee and sat up all night, devoting himself to details. The cheque he had given Carr must be honoured; hence he must ride to-morrow to San Juan to see Engle, the banker. He was only a few hundred dollars short there and Engle would help him to balance the account. The fifteen hundred he owed the bank on his personal note could no doubt be extended if necessary. There remained the money for the calves, the thousand due Pony Lee and another thousand to pay his men and for such necessities as would arise. All of this he would talk over with Engle. It might be that the bank would take a mortgage on his equity in Desert Valley and advance a considerable sum on it.
But he must not forget that the present crisis was not all to be considered. Another year would bring the time of another payment to Carr. In the meantime the ranch must be operated, it must be made to pay. He had already planned on asking extensions from Engle; but it did not enter his thought now to ask John Carr to wait.
‘I’ve got my work cut out for me,’ said Howard grimly. ‘I’ve got to work like hell, that’s all. I’ve got to carve down expenses, fire men I can manage without, be on the job all the time to buy in stock cheap wherever it can be got and unload for a quick turnover and some ready cash. I’ve got to go in for more hay and wheat another season; the price is up and going higher. And real soon, the chances are, I’ve got to sell some more cows.’
Before dawn he was at the men’s bunk-house. He woke Chuck Evans and told him to hurry into his clothes and come up to the house. When Chuck came the two men sat down at the table, pencil and paper in Howard’s hand, Chuck’s eyes keen upon his employer’s set face.
‘I’m right down to cases, Chuck,’ said Howard bluntly. ‘I am in up to my neck, and that’s all there is to it. As soon as I get through with you I am off to San Juan to see if there is any real money left in the world. I’ll be back as soon as I can. But you get busy while I’m gone. First thing, here are five men you will ha
ve to give their time. Tell them why; tell them there’s always a job open for them here when I’ve got the cash for pay-day. Then you and what’s left will get your necks into your collars and go to it, long hours and hard work until we pull out. Get the boys out this morning for another round-up. Bring in every hoof and tail that will size up for a decent sale. If you can get time, ride down to San Ramon and see if there’s a chance to sell a string of mules to the road gang. That’s about all this time; look for me back in two or three days.’
‘All right, Al,’ said Evans. ‘So long.’ He went to the door and paused. He wanted to say something and didn’t know just what to say or how to say it. So he coughed and said again, ‘Well, so long, Al,’ and went out.
In the first flush of the dawn Howard rode away toward San Juan. He turned in the saddle and looked back toward the Last Ridge country. He fancied that he could make out the Longstreet cabin even when he knew that his lover’s desire was tricking his sense. He thought of Helen; she would be sleeping now. He would not see her for several days. He thought of John Carr; Carr would see her every day until he was forced to go East. Carr had not confided in him when he expected to leave. His eyes left the uplands lingeringly and wandered across the sweeping fields of Desert Valley. He straightened in the saddle and his lungs filled and expanded. The valley was his, his to work for, to struggle and plan for, to make over as he would have it—to hold for Helen. For Helen loved it no less than he loved it. And he loved Helen.
‘… One should be loyal to one’s friends.’ He held to that stoutly, insistent and stubborn to play his part. Something had come over him and Carr, or between them; but none the less he obstinately sought to refuse to harbour thoughts which came again and again and which always angered him with himself. There was the suspicion: ‘Carr was unfair in seeking to take Helen and her father away with him to the East.’ He told himself that that was Carr’s right if Carr held it so. There came the accusation: ‘Carr had been hard on him last night.’ He told himself that it was easily granted that they had misunderstood each other when, long ago, they had arranged for the payments; further, that no doubt Carr, too, was hard up for cash. The thought suggested itself: ‘Carr had no right to berate him for allowing Sanchia to ride to the Longstreet cabin.’ Carr had spoken quickly, unthinkingly, and they all were under stress. He would play fair and give a man his due—and his thoughts switched to Helen and Carr was forgotten and, with a half-smile on his lips, he rode on through the brightening morning, dreaming of the ranch that should be when Helen came with him to ride and their hands found each other and she whispered: ‘I love it and—it is ours!’
John Engle, the banker of San Juan, was something more than a banker. Not only was he a fine, upstanding, broad-minded man; he was a man, no longer in the first flush of youth, who had made himself what he was and who from forty-five vividly recalled twenty-five. He had learned caution, but he had known what it was to plunge head-first into deep waters. That now, a man established, he no longer had to take long chances, was due largely to the successes met in long chances taken when all of life lay before him, inviting. When now Alan Howard came to him in his office at the bank and put his case before him straightforwardly and without evasion or reservation, he came to the one man in the world who because of his position and his character could best help him.
‘Take it slow, Alan,’ said Engle quietly. ‘I can give you the whole day, if necessary. I’ve got to know just where you stand and just which way you are headed before I can get anywhere.’
He drew out his pad and very methodically began to set down figures as the cattleman talked. Finally:
‘It’s the bank’s money, not my own, that I’ll be advancing you, you know. I am pretty well sewed up personally as usual. Consequently, while I can see you over a few of the immediate bumps in your trail, I can’t give you all that you’ll want. But I fancy you can get across with it.’ His keen eyes took fresh stock of the cattleman, marking the assertive strength, the clean build, the erect carriage, the hard hands, the lean jaw and finally the steady eyes which always met his own. The personal equation always counts, perhaps with the banker more than most men imagine, and John Engle found no sign of any deterioration in the security offered by Alan Howard’s personality. ‘It’s a good thing, anyway,’ he went on, with the first hint of a twinkle in his regard, ‘for a youngster like you to have to scrap things out after the old fashion. Not married yet, are you?’
‘No,’ said Alan.
Engle laughed.
‘But hoping to be? Well, it’s time. That’s a good ballast for a man. Now, I’ve got this pretty straight, let’s have your plans. You hope to swing the ranch all right, or you wouldn’t be calling on me. You’re in deep already and, of course, if it’s a human possibility you’ve got to swing it. What do you figure to do?’
Howard during his long ride had considered his problem from all angles, and now, leaning forward eagerly, told in detail what he had decided. Engle, a rancher himself with broad experience, nodded now and then, asked his few pertinent questions, made an occasional suggestion. Then he rose to his feet and put out his hand.
‘Drop in and see us when you’re in town and have the time,’ he said cordially. ‘Mrs. Engle was speaking of you only the other day. You’ll want to be on your way now. I’ll let you have five thousand on your equity and let the other fifteen hundred ride with it, making one note for sixty-five hundred. I think that if you work things right and hold down expenses and make the sales and purchases and other sales you have in mind, you’ll get away with your deal. Just the same, my boy,’ and for an instant there came into his eyes the fighting look which had been there frequently in the day when he fought out his own battles, ‘you’ve got a man’s-sized job on your hands.’
‘I know it,’ said Alan. And when, the proper papers signed, he said good-bye, his eyes brightened and he said directly: ‘It’s a great thing, John Engle, to have a man’s-sized man to talk things over with.’
From his window Engle musingly watched the tall form go out to the horse at the hitching-post and swing up into the saddle.
‘Now what’s happened between him and John Carr?’ he asked himself. And without hesitation he answered his own question: ‘A girl, I suppose. Well, she ought to be a real girl to do that.’
Howard, riding joyously back toward Desert Valley, thought first of Helen. But not even Helen could hold all of his thoughts when at length his horse’s hoofs fell again upon the rim of Desert Valley Land. Upon the bordering hills of the southern edge of the valley he drew rein and sat, lost in thought. He saw herds feeding, and they were his herds and he himself did not know their exact number. He must know; the game was swiftly becoming one where pawns count. He saw a man riding; it was his man, whom he must direct and pay. He saw water running in one of his larger creeks, and thought how it too must be made to work for him. Yonder were colts running wild; there were more than he required at present. They must be broken; they could be sold. He looked across empty acres, rich pasture lands void of grazing stock. A slow, thoughtful frown gathered in his eyes; he must somehow put stock into them, stock to be bought skilfully and sold skilfully. All of this glorious sweep of country stretching to the four corners of the compass was his, his very own, if he were man enough to go on with the work to which he had somewhat lightly set his hand. He had loved it always, since first he had come here as John Carr’s guest. He loved it now with a mounting passion. It flashed over him that when, at some far-distant time, he should die, this was the one spot upon God’s great earth where he should want his ashes scattered on the little wind which came down from the hills. It was a part of him and he a part of it. And as he loved it and yearned for it utterly, so did Helen love it.
‘It is going to be mine and yours, my dear.’ He spoke aloud, his voice stern with his determination. ‘For us to have and to hold.’
And because of the thought and t
he knowledge of what lay ahead of him, he knew that for the present he must forego that to which he had looked forward all day. He must for a little postpone a ride to see Helen. For already he foresaw the calls upon his time; short-handed, it was to be work for him from long before day until long after dark. As he started down the hill into the valley he saw a herd of cattle coming from the north. He had a round-up on his hands to begin with, and it was already beginning.
CHAPTER XXI
Almost
Long hours and hard work in the cattle country mean that a man slips from his saddle into his bunk and to sleep, and from his bunk into his saddle again, with only time to bolt his food and hot coffee infrequently and at irregular intervals. Chuck Evans had obeyed orders; the ranch was short-handed and the ‘old-timers’ remaining cursed a little, to be sure, at the new order of things, but understood and went to work. Howard, when he met them all at supper long after dark, noted how their sunburned eyes turned upon him speculatively. And he knew that in their own parlance every mother’s son of them was ready to go the limit if the old man set the pace. That night, when the others trooped off to bed, he detained Chuck Evans and Plug Oliver and Dave Terril for a brief conference. To them he gave in what detail he could his latest plans. Also, since they were friends as well as hired hands, he told them frankly of his difficulties and of his success with Engle. When the men left him they had accepted his fight as their own.
The first man in the saddle the next day was Howard. He ordered the tally taken of every head of stock on his ranch. This alone, since his acres were broad and since his stock grazed free over thousands of acres lying adjacent to Desert Valley on three sides, was a big task. Already, during his absence, a number of the best of the beef cattle had been moved to the meadowlands. He set a man to close-herd there; he sent other men to bring in still other straying stock; he himself judged every single head, cutting out those he deemed unfit; finally he saw the growing herd driven down into the choicest of his meadow grazing land to fatten.
