The Max Brand Megapack (436 page)

“I never heard of a cow needin’ water to think on,” said Dixon grimly. “And you can tell Milman that for me, too.”

“I’ll tell him,” agreed the other. “Now, then, suppose that we wanted to water them cows, how much would you charge a head?”

“We’re reasonable,” said Champ Dixon. “It sure does grieve us a lot to think of cows goin’ thirsty. So we’re willin’ to let you water them cows for two dollars a head.”

“Two dollars?” shouted the foreman. “We might as well haul beer up here and water ’em with that!”

“Well,” said the other thoughtfully, “I never figgered on that. But maybe it would do as good!”

“Gregory hastily pulled out his plug of tobacco and bit off a liberal corner.

“Is that a go?” said he.

“‘Yeah, that’s a go.”

“No changin’?”

“No.”

“Tell me, Champ—ain’t that Two-gun Porter, and Missouri Slim, and the Haley brothers, over yonder?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“And the rest of your bunch match up? Well,” said Gregory, “I got an idea that more’n money is gonna be paid for this land. And the color of it is gonna be red.”

He did not pause to say adieu, but turned the head of his horse and rode away.

CHAPTER 17

Bad News

When the foreman was over the ridge, he turned loose that stubborn broncho, and made him run for his life, with a jab of the spurs or a cut of the quirt every fifty yards or so.

He made that poor mustang hold to the one gait until it had reached the ranch house, and then Spot Gregory threw the reins and jumped from a horse that did not need to be tied. It stood like a lamb, while Spot ran on into the house.

It was just such a house as a thousand other ranchers in the West had built before Milman, and would build after him. It was a long strung-out place in the midst of what had once been a flourishing grove, but the nearest trees had been cut away for firewood, regardless of shady comfort in the middle of the summer. All the ground around the house was stamped bare by the horses which were often tied up in great lines to the hitching racks. Through the naked dust, a dozen or so of chickens scratched and went about thrusting their heads before them at every step.

A heavy wind of a few years before had threatened to knock down the kitchen wing like a stack of cards, and this had been secured with a great pair of plough chains, taken up taut with a tourniquet. This chain was the only ornament that appeared on that unpainted barn of a house. It leaned all askew. It was plainly no more than a shelter, with little pretension of being a comfortable house. Yet the Milman hospitality was famous for two hundred miles.

Into this house ran Spot, entering through the kitchen door, which he kicked open in the face of the Chinese cook. The latter sat down violently upon the floor and the armful of baking tins which he was carrying went clattering to the farthest corners. He looked surprised, but not offended. He was prepared for anything up to murder from these wild white men.

“Where’s the boss?” shouted Spot.

“No savvy,” said the cook, blinking.

“I’m in here, Spot,” said Milman from the dining room.

Gregory strode to the door. He was too excited and angry to remember to take off his hat. He stood there towering in the doorway, scowling as though it was Milman whom he hated.

It was still fairly early in the morning, though late for a ranch breakfast, but Milman had adopted easier ways of living, since his fortune had become so secure in the past few years. The ranch was a gold mine, and the vein of it promised to last forever.

Opposite the rancher sat his daughter, and Mrs. Milman who looked small and frail at the end of the table. She was one of those delicate and thin-faced women who seem to be half with the angels all the time; as a matter of fact, she always knew the price of beef on the hoof to an eighth of a cent.

“What’s loose, Spot?” asked Milman.

“Hell’s loose,” said Gregory shortly. “Plumb hell, is what is loose!”

Then he remembered the ladies and by way of apology, he took off his hat.

“Go on,” said Milman.

Gregory pointed with a long arm.

“Champ Dixon, he’s jumped the water rights. He’s camped with about twenty men and he’s runnin’ a fence on both sides of Hurry Creek.”

Georgia Milman jumped to her feet.

“The scoundrel!” said she.

Her father pushed back his chair with an exclamation at the same moment, but Mrs. Milman looked up to the ceiling with narrowed eyes, and did not stir.

“They’re keeping the cows away from the water?” demanded Milman.

“That’s what they’re doin’.”

“I’ll get—I’ll send to Dry Creek, and we’ll have the law out here to take their scalps. That murdering Dixon, is it?”

“Champ Dixon.”

“Did you see him?”

“I talked to him.”

“Does he know that we can have the sheriff—”

“He says that it’s all legal. That your title from Little Crow ain’t worth a scrap and that he’s got the real title, now, from another buck in the tribe.”

“They’re going to use the law. Is that what you mean?” asked Milman shortly.

“That’s what they say. Billy Shay is behind the deal. Him and his crooked lawyers, I suppose.”

“Shay, too!” exclaimed Milman. “I’ll—I’ll—”

He stopped.

Perspiration began to pour down his face, though the morning was cold enough.

“Oh, Dad,” said Georgia, “what can we do?”

“We gotta pay two dollars a head for water rights,” said the foreman, writhing in mighty rage at the mere thought.

Milman turned purple, but still his expression was that of a dazed man.

Said Mrs. Milman suddenly: “There’s only one thing to do, my dear.”

“What can we do?” said her husband.

“We can drive them from the water by force.”

“Not that crowd,” declared the foreman. “I know ’em too dog-gone well. I saw the face of a lot of ’em, and I knew ’em out of the old days. They’re a hand-picked bunch of yeggs. Every one of them is a gunman with a record. And there’s Champ Dixon at the head of ’em! You know Dixon.”

“I know all about Dixon,” said Mrs. Milman. “But—we’ve got to get the cows to the water. We have neighbors. We’ll have to send to them all. The Wagners and the Peters and the Birch families will never in the world say no to us.”

“They’ll never budge agin’ a fellow like Dixon,” prohpesied the foreman. “They all know his record. We need State troops. Besides, Dixon is claimin’ the law. The Peters and the rest would ride with us agin’ plain rustlers, or such. But not agin’ Dixon and the chance of the law, besides.”

“He’s right,” said Milman, dropping his head a little.

He looked like a beaten man. Silence came into the room like a fifth person and laid a cold hand on every heart.

Then Mrs. Milman went on in her gentle voice: “The cows will soon be dying, my dear.”

Her husband looked wildly up at her and then away through the window. At that very moment a calf began to bawl from the feeding corral where the weaklings were kept.

“We can run the pump night and day—” he began.

“That well runs dry with very little pumping at this time of year,” said his wife.

“We could dig—”

“You know how deep we have to dig in order to get water, and through what rock. The cows will be dead, my dear. Every animal on the place, except the few that we can water from the mill—and precious few that will be.”

“You’ve heard Spot Gregory talk,” said her husband. “He knows these people and what they can do. God help me!” He was suddenly in a blank despair.

Said Mrs. Milman: “Georgia!”

“Yes, mother.”

“Take a horse and ride to the Chet Wagner house. Tell Chet what has happened. Ask him if he’ll come over here and help us fight. Remind him, if you have to, how we helped him through that bad winter, two years ago.”

“I hate to go begging to Chet,” said the girl. “He—”

“Are you going to let your pride stand between you and bankruptcy?” asked her mother coldly. “Chet is a good lad. He’ll never say no to you.”

Georgia looked desperately at her father for help.

“No, no, Georgia,” said he. “I won’t allow you to use your influence when you—”

“Georgia might fetch in the Wagners,” admitted Spot, thoughtfully. “And I might be able to raise the Birch outfit. Tom Birch always was a pretty good friend of mine I dunno about the Peters. They’re a pretty hard lot. We can try ’em, though. But I tell you what, we ain’t got the kind of men ridin, this range that can stand up to such a bunch as Dixon’s crew. However, it’s better to make a try and slip than not to try at all. It’s the ghost of the law that he has behind him that’s gonna hold back everybody. It’s just robbery, I know. But you’d have to pay him two hundred thousand dollars for a quit claim!”

There was a faint cry from Milman.

Then he exclaimed: “Well, if the worst has come to the worst, two hundred thousand will have to be paid—and then we’ll fight him in the courts and get the money back!”

“Get back water from the desert!” said Mrs. Milman, her voice much gentler than her words. “Are you going to quit and surrender, my dear?”

“Look the thing in the face!” exclaimed her husband. “What else can I do? The cows—”

“I’d rather,” said Elinore Milman, “see every cow and horse on the ranch dead of thirst than to allow crooks to beat you in this manner. Get the money back from them in the courts? Why, ten minutes after you paid the cash down, they’d have scattered to the four winds. Get the money back, indeed!”

This grave speech had such weight that Milman suddenly threw his hands above his head.

“I’ll get our boys together and lead ’em down!” he cried. “Spot, send out a call to—”

“No,” said the foreman with unexpected firmness.

“Are you going to quit on me, too, Spot?” asked Milman sadly.

“I’ll do my share of range ridin’,” said Spot, “and I’ll keep care of the herd, and I’ll do my share of fightin’, too. But I’ll never go against the mob that I saw down there by the river until we’ve got the odds on our side. I’ve only got the ordinary share of sand. I ain’t got enough to want to throw myself away. Why, Milman, there’s single men down there that would eat any three men we’ve got, and eat ’em before breakfast.”

“You see, Elinore?” said the rancher to his wife, in despair.

“Well,” she said in her usual gentle calm, “go ahead and see what neighbors we can get to join us. If they haven’t turned up by five or six this evening, I’ll take a gun and see what I myself can do with the desperadoes.”

CHAPTER 18

A Volunteer

They looked at her in amazement.

Her cheek had not reddened, her voice had not altered or her eye brightened. She was as gently calm as ever, but suddenly they knew that she was steel. All three stood like children before her.

She explained to her husband: “I’ve put a good deal of my life into this ranch and its affairs, my dear. If I have to die for the sake of it, I’ll die without a whimper. But in the meantime, let’s find out what our friends will do. Georgia, ride to see Chet Wagner. You try the Birch family. I’ll go to the Peters myself.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” broke in Milman. “You ride about begging? I’ll go myself. And you stay here!”

She nodded at once.

“Of course, I’ll do what you wish, my dear,” said she.

But when the other three left the room, they all realized something they had never guessed before—that little Elinore Milman was the real controlling force in that ranch. Her own husband had not dreamed how true it was, but looking dizzily back through the years, he could now realize that a hundred times her voice, like a hand upon his shoulder, like a hand at his back, had pushed him along the way she chose, and given him courage for great attempts.

There was something mysterious—this utter manliness of resolution in a woman—and to the mystery they trusted a good deal. If her body were small, her soul was so great that it seemed to all three of them an overwhelming thing.

They took horses at once and cut across country in varying directions.

There were a few squatters here and there who might have been picked up more quickly, but Milman’s outfit, for many good reasons, was not on speaking terms with the squatters. The nearest big ranches were the only ones likely to be able to send forth men in sufficient numbers. Chet Wagner, in particular, was as brave as a lion, though Georgia blushed when she thought of appealing to him for help.

However, she set her teeth and went grimly on her way. She had a good fast half-bred gelding under her, and the horse worked well this morning. Her spirits rose. The keen morning wind of that gallop cut into her face and blew away her doubts and sense of shame. After all, what was shameful in asking the help of a man who once had asked her to marry him?

She thought back to her mother, rather bewildered by that quiet exhibition of strength, and yet she could tell herself that many a time before she had found the steel under that silken glove.

Her heart rose higher. Every rock was flashing with dew, and the grass sparkled. Midsummer would have been thrice as trying, but at this season the dew alone would enable those hardy range cattle to last quite a time. In the meanwhile, they could find some way. If the neighbors could not or would not help with guns, they might help with wise counsel. The familiar face of the big blue mountains was a comfort to her, also. They had looked down on her through so many happy days that it seemed impossible that they now should see her in despair.

All would come out well, she told herself. There was too great a crop of chivalry and manhood in the West for the Milmans to be abandoned in their time of need.

Then, as the horse trotted to the top of a low hill which looked down upon a wide, pleasant hollow, she reined it in suddenly with a leap of the heart. For over the opposite knoll swept a big mule deer with its long ears laid back with the speed of its running It floated down the hillside with the peculiar, bounding gait of its species, and the girl, watching and wondering, listened for the cry of dogs behind it, or the howl of the wolf running on the trail.

There was no such outcry, but an instant later over the same hilltop darted a rider on a black horse which had a strange vest of shining white over the breast and the lower part of the throat.