When he related his emotion during their first meeting—when he had told Dale that he was her brother, after yielding to the appeal in her eyes—she smiled.
“There was some excuse for it, after all,” she declared.
“An’ you ain’t blamin’ me—so much?” he asked.
“No,” she said. She blushed as she thought of the times she had kissed him. He was thinking of her kisses, too, and as their eyes met, each knew what the other was thinking about. Sanderson smiled at her and her eyes dropped.
“It wasn’t a square deal for me to take them, then, ma’am,” he told her. “But I’m goin’ to stay around here an’ fight Dale an’ his friends to a finish. That is, if you want me to stay. I’d like a straight answer. I ain’t hangin’ around where I ain’t wanted.”
Her eyes glowed as she looked at him.
“You’ll have to stay, now,” she said. “Will is dead, and you will have to stay here and brazen it out. They’d take the Double A from me surely, if you were to desert me. You will have to stay and insist that you are my brother!”
“That’s a contract,” he agreed. “But”—he looked at her, a flush on his face—“goin’ back to them kisses. It wasn’t a square deal. But I’m hopin’ that a day will come—”
She got up, her face very red. “It is nearly morning,” she interrupted.
“Yes,” he smiled; “things are only beginnin’.”
“You are impudent—and imprudent,” she said, looking straight at him.
“An’ hopeful,” he answered, meeting her eyes.
Fifteen minutes later, stretched out on his bed, Sanderson saw the dawn breaking in the east. It reminded him of the morning he had seen the two riders above him on the edge of the arroyo. As on that other morning, he lay and watched the coming of the dawn. And when later he heard Mary moving about in the kitchen he got up, not having slept a wink, and went out to her.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked.
“How could I,” he asked, “with a new day dawnin’ for me?”
CHAPTER XVI
THE HAND OF THE ENEMY
When in the bunkhouse the next morning Sanderson informed Barney Owen of what had occurred during the night, the latter looked fixedly at Sanderson.
“So she didn’t take it hard,” he said.
“Was you expectin’ her to? For a brother that she hadn’t seen in a dozen years—an’ which she knows in her secret heart wasn’t any good?” retorted Sanderson. “Shootin’ your face off in Okar—or anywhere else—don’t go any more,” added Sanderson. “She’s pretendin’, publicly, that I’m her brother.”
“I’m through talking,” declared Owen.
“Or livin’. It’s one or the other,” warned Sanderson.
Sanderson took the seven thousand dollars that Mary gave him, rode to Lazette—a town fifty miles eastward from the basin—and deposited the money in a bank there. Then he rode eastward still farther and in another town discovered a young engineer with a grievance against his employers.
The result of this discovery was that on the following morning the young engineer and Sanderson journeyed westward to the basin, arriving at the Double A late in the afternoon of the next day.
On the edge of the plateau after the engineer and, Sanderson had spent three or four days prowling through the basin and the gorge, the engineer spoke convincingly:
“It’s the easiest thing in the world! A big flume to the point I showed you, a big main ditch and several laterals will do the trick. I’m with you to the finish!”
Sanderson smiled at the engineer’s glowing enthusiasm and told him of the opposition he would meet in developing the project.
“There’ll be a heap of schemin’, an’ mebbe shootin’, Williams,” Sanderson told him. “Puttin’ through this deal won’t be any pussy-kitten affair.”
“So much the better,” laughed the engineer; “I’m fed up on soft snaps and longing for action.”
The engineer was thirty; big, square-shouldered, lithe, and capable. He had a strong face and a level, steady eye.
“If you mean business, let’s get acquainted,” he said. “My front name is Kent.”
“Well, Kent, let’s get busy,” smiled Sanderson. “You go to work on your estimates, order your material, hire your men. I’ll see how bad the people in the basin want the water they’ve been expectin’.”
Kent Williams took up his quarters in the bunkhouse and immediately began work, though before he could do much he rode to Okar, telegraphed to Dry Bottom, the town which had been the scene of his previous activity, and awaited the arrival of several capable-looking young men.
In company with the latter he returned to the Double A, and for many days thereafter he and his men ran the transit and drove stakes in the basin and along the gorge.
Sanderson spent much of his time talking with the cattlemen in the basin. They were all eager to have water brought to their ranches, for it would save them the long trip to the river, which was inaccessible in many places, and they welcomed the new project.
0ne of the men—a newcomer to the basin—voiced the general sentiment.
“We want water, an’ we don’t give a damn who brings it here. First come, first served!”
The big problem to Sanderson, however, was the question of money. He was aware that a vast sum would be required. Nearly all the money he possessed would be sunk in the preliminary work, and he knew that if the work was to go on he must borrow money.
He couldn’t get money in Okar, he knew that.
He rode to Lazette and talked with a banker there. The latter was interested, but unwilling to lend.
“The Okar Basin,” he said. “Yes, I’ve heard about it. Great prospects there. But I’ve been told that Silverthorn and Maison are going to put it through, and until I hear from them, I shouldn’t like to interfere.”
“That gang won’t touch the Double A water!” declared Sanderson. “I’ll see the basin scorched to a cinder before I’ll let them in on the deal!”
The banker smiled. “You are entitled to the water, of course; and I admire your grit. But those men are powerful. I have to depend on them a great deal. So you can see that I couldn’t do anything without first consulting them.”
Sanderson left Lazette in disgust. It was not until after he had tried in Dry Bottom and Las Vegas that he realized how subtle and far-reaching was the power and influence of the financial rulers of Okar.
“We should like to let you have the money,” the Las Vegas banker told him. “But, unfortunately, a loan to you would conflict with our interests in Okar. We know the big men in Okar have been considering the water question in the basin, and we should not like to antagonize them.”
The trip consumed two weeks, and Sanderson returned to the Double A to discover that during his absence very little work had been done.
“It looks like we’re up against it,” Williams informed him when pressed for an explanation. “We can’t get a pound of material. I went personally to Okar and was told by Silverthorn that the railroad would accept no material consigned to the Double A ranch.”
“Pretty raw,” was Sanderson’s only comment.
“Raw? It’s rotten!” declared Williams. “There’s plenty of the kind of material we want in Lazette. To get it here would mean a fifty-mile haul. I can get teams and wagons in Lazette,” he added, an eager note in his voice.
“Go to it,” said Sanderson.
Williams smiled admiringly. “You’re game, Mr. Man,” he said; “it’s a pleasure to work for you!”
However, it was not courage that impelled Sanderson to accept the hazard and expense of the fifty-mile haul. In his mind during the days he had been trying to borrow money had been a picture of the defeat that was ahead of him if he did not succeed; he could imagine the malicious satisfaction with which his three enemies would discuss his failure.
Inwardly, Sanderson was writhing with impatience and consumed with an eagerness to get into personal contact with his en
emies, the passion to triumph had gripped his soul, and a contempt for the sort of law in which Okar dealt had grown upon him until the contemplation of it had aroused in him a savage humor.
Okar’s law was not law at all; it was a convenience under which his three enemies could assail the property rights of others.
Outwardly, Sanderson was a smiling optimist. To Mary Bransford he confided that all was going well.
Neither had broached the subject of Sanderson’s impersonation since the night of Dale’s visit. It was a matter which certain thoughts made embarrassing for Mary, and Sanderson was satisfied to keep silent.
But on the day that Williams left the Double A for Lazette, Mary’s curiosity could not be denied. She had conquered that constraint which had resulted from the revelation of Sanderson’s identity, and had asked him to ride to the top of the gorge, telling him she wanted him to explain the proposed system of irrigation.
“It is desperately hard to get any information out of Williams,” she told Sanderson; “he simply won’t talk about the work.”
“Meanin’ that he’ll talk rapid enough about other things, eh?” Sanderson returned. He looked slyly at Mary.
“What other things are there for him to talk about?”
“A man could find a heap of things to talk about—to a woman. He might talk about himself—or the woman,” suggested Sanderson, grinning.
She gave him a knowing look. “Oh,” she said, reddening. “Yes,” she added, smiling faintly, “now that you speak of it, I remember he did talk quite a little. He is a very interesting man.”
“Good-looking too,” said Sanderson; “an’ smart. He saw the prospects of this thing right off.”
“Didn’t you see them?” she questioned quickly.
“Oh, that,” he said, flushing. “If the Drifter hadn’t told me mebbe I wouldn’t have seen.”
“You have always been around cattle, I suppose?” she asked.
“Raised with them,” smiled Sanderson.
Thus she directed the conversation to the subject about which she had wanted to inquire—his past life. Her questions were clever; they were suggestions to which he could do nothing except to return direct replies. And she got out of him much of his history, discovering that he had sound moral views, and a philosophy of which the salient principle was the scriptural injunction: “Do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you.”
Upon that principle he had founded his character. His reputation had grown out of an adamantine adherence to it. Looking at him now she felt the strength of him, his intense devotion to his ideals; the earnestness of him.
Curiously, she had felt those things during the time she had thought of him as her brother, and had been conscious of the lure of him. It gave her a queer thrill to stand beside him now, knowing that she had kissed him; that he had had an opportunity to take advantage of the situation, and had not done so.
He had acted the gentleman; he was a gentleman. That was why she was able to talk with him now. If he had not treated her as he had treated her his presence at the Double A would have been intolerable.
There was deep respect for women in Sanderson, she knew. Also, despite his bold, frank glances—which was merely the manhood of him challenging her and taking note of her charms—there was a hesitating bashfulness about the man, as though he was not quite certain of the impression he was creating in her mind.
That knowledge pleased Mary; it convinced her of his entire worthiness; it gave her power over him—and that power thrilled her.
As her brother, he had been an interesting figure, though his manner had repelled her. And she had been conscious of a subtle pleasure that was not all sisterly when she had been near him. She knew, now, that the sensation had been instinctive, and she wondered if she could have felt toward her brother as she felt toward this man.
However, this new situation had removed the diffidence that had affected her; their relations were less matter of fact and more romantic, and she felt toward him as any woman feels who knows an admirer pursues her—breathless with the wonder of it, but holding aloof, tantalizing, whimsical, and uncertain of herself.
She looked at him challengingly, mockery in her eyes.
“So you came here because the Drifter told you there would be trouble—and a woman. How perfectly delightful!”
He sensed her mood and responded to it.
“It’s sure delightful. But it ain’t unusual. I’ve always heard that trouble will be lurkin’ around where there’s a woman.”
“But you would not say that a woman is not worth the trouble she causes?” she countered.
“A man is willin’ to take her—trouble an’ all,” he responded, looking straight at her.
“Yes—if he can get her!” she shot back at him.
“Mostly every woman gets married to a man. I’ve got as good a chance as any other man.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re talkin’ to me about it,” he grinned. “If you wasn’t considerin’ me you wouldn’t argue with me about it; you’d turn me down cold an’ forget it.”
“I suppose when a man is big and romantic-looking—”
“Oh, shucks, ma’am; you’ll be havin’ me gettin’ a swelled head.”
“He thinks that all he has to do is to look his best.”
“I expect I’ve looked my worst since I’ve been here. I ain’t had a chance to do any moonin’ at you.”
“I don’t like men that ‘moon,’” she declared.
“That’s the reason I didn’t do it,” he said.
She laughed. “Now, tell me,” she asked, “how you got your name, ‘Deal.’ It had something to do with cards, I suppose?”
“With weight,” he said, looking soberly at her. “When I was born my dad looked at me sort of nonplussed. I was that big. ‘There’s a deal of him,’ he told my mother. An’ the name stuck. That ain’t a lot mysterious.”
“It was a convenient name to attach the ‘Square’ to,” she said.
“I’ve earned it,” he said earnestly. “An’ I’ve had a mighty hard time provin’ my right to wear it. There’s men that will tempt you out of pure deviltry, an’ others that will try to shoot such a fancy out of your system. But I didn’t wear the ‘Square’ because I wanted to—folks hung it onto me without me askin’. That’s one reason I left Tombstone; I’d got tired of posin’ as an angel.”
He saw her face grow thoughtful and a haunting expression come into her eyes.
“You haven’t told me how he looked,” she said.
Sanderson lied. He couldn’t tell her of the dissipation he had seen in her brother’s face, nor of the evilness that had been stamped there. He drew a glowing picture of the man he had buried, and told her that had he lived her brother would have done her credit.
But Sanderson suffered no remorse over the lie. For he saw her eyes glow with pride, and he knew that the picture he had drawn would be the ideal of her memory for the future.
CHAPTER XVII
THE TRAIL HERD
Kent Williams went to Lazette, and Sanderson spent the interval during his departure and return in visiting the cattlemen and settlers in the basin. The result of these visits was a sheaf of contracts for water, the charge based on acreage, that reposed in Sanderson’s pockets. According to the terms of the contracts signed by the residents of the basin, Sanderson was to furnish water within one year.
The length of time, Sanderson decided, would tell the story of his success or failure. If he failed he would lose nothing, because of having the contracts with the settlers, and if he won the contracts would be valid.
Sanderson was determined to win. When after an absence of a week Williams returned, to announce that he had made arrangements for the material necessary to make a “regular” start, and that he had hired men and teams to transport the material, Sanderson’s determination became grim. For Williams told him that he had “gone the limit,” which meant that every cent to Sanderson’s credit in
the Lazette bank had been pledged to pay for the material the engineer had ordered.
“We’re going to rush things from now on,” Williams told Sanderson. “Next week we’ll need ten thousand dollars, at least.”
Sanderson went into the house and had a long talk with Mary Bransford. Coming out, he went to the corral, saddled Streak, and rode to Okar.
Shortly he was sitting at a desk opposite a little man who was the resident buyer for an eastern live-stock company.
“The Double A has three thousand head of cattle,” Sanderson told the little man. “They’ve had good grass and plenty of water. They’re fat, an’ are good beef cattle. Thirty-three dollars is the market price. What will you give for them, delivered to your corral here?”
The resident buyer looked uncomfortable. “I’ve had orders not to buy any more cattle for a time.”
“Whose orders?” demanded Sanderson.
The resident buyer’s face flushed and he looked more uncomfortable.
“My firm’s orders!” he snapped.
Sanderson laughed grimly; he saw guilt in the resident buyer’s eyes.
“Silverthorn’s orders,” he said shortly. At the other’s emphatic negative Sanderson laughed again. “Maison’s, then. Sure—Maison’s,” he added, as the other’s flush deepened.
Sanderson got up. “Don’t take it so hard,” he advised the resident buyer. “I ain’t goin’ to bite you. What I’m wonderin’ is, did Maison give you that order personally, or did you get it from your boss.”
The buyer shifted uneasily in his chair, and did not look at Sanderson.
“Well,” said the latter, “it don’t make a heap of difference. Good-bye,” he said, as he went out. “If you get to feelin’ mighty small an’ mean you can remember that you’re only one of the pack of coyotes that’s makin’ this town a disgrace to a dog kennel.”
Sanderson returned to the Double A and found Mary in the house.
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 11
