DUST STIRRED FAINTLY to the hoof strokes of the big dim cayuse—a pony two hands higher than the average saddle horse and longer in the barrel. A big horse to carry a big man. The grass lay brown and cured after the excesses of the summer sun. Autumn haze shimmered against the skyline. Topping a long easy crest, the pony halted as though sensing the purpose of its rider: to survey the untrammeled empire on every side.
The country was like some men, never quite able to make up its mind. At times it sprawled as lazily as a well-fed bear, only to change and knot itself into hills and a tangle of gullies. Far off to the east and south, the blue haze of mountains lay like autumn smoke. Those were the beginnings of the Black Hills.
Until recently this had been an empty land; now, all at once, there was change. Twice since sunrise Montana Abbott had glimpsed grazing cattle. Once he had seen the raw new sprawl of ranch buildings, and another time the slow smoke from a chimney had betrayed the location of an outfit hidden behind the hills. Cattle outfits were forming; a town had erupted, toadstool-fashion, with the improbable name of Duarf. And, vast with exciting potential, the railroad was coming, pushing, if reports were to be believed, both west and east, toward a link-up of rails and a new way of life.
From where he sat, Montana could see the tangible proofs.
Sitting relaxed and easy, showing a hard-muscled leanness which remained as unchanging as the prowl of the prairie wind, he studied a rawly new line of grade, where men and horses, plows and scrapers, blended in activity like a horde of ants. It was the railroad, being leveled and readied for the run of the iron horse.
But even with such evidence in view, it was hard to believe.
As though his doubts could be felt, and as a further token of proof, a sound like distant gunfire shattered the stillness. Rumbling like thunder, the blasting subsided, dust puffing where the workers toiled. Giant powder was fretting an already pockmarked landscape, moving and removing obstructions too big for the plows.
It sure enough looks like the real thing, Abbott reflected, and pondered the incredible as his horse moved forward. During the war years, the twin lines of steel had reached as far as the big river, halting at the eastern shore. The dream of spanning the continent as far as the Pacific, linking the land in a band of steel, had remained a hope—now strongly shining, again flickering almost to hopelessness. Yet here were men at work, a dream taking on the shape of reality.
Or was this no more than the shadow of substance, some gigantic hoax or fraud? And if so, what could he its purpose?
Why would anyone spend money building a grade unless trains were to run on it? he asked himself, and fretted at his own answer. That wouldn’t make sense. But there’s a lot about this that’s like the smell of skunk on the air. When you get the odor, there’s hound to be a cause, prowling in the vicinity.
He was there for a combination of reasons, partly out of friendship, and because his curiosity had been strongly intrigued, not many days before, by a letter, delivered by request by a westward-heading rider, signed by a man he’d known some years before who was, like himself, a former soldier for the South. Jeb Bowen had stirred his interest by posing questions to which the obvious answers did not ring convincingly. His worry had shown through the lines on the page like sunshine through the warped boards of a homestead shack.
“The railroad’s building straight toward my land and aiming to cross it,” Bowen had written. “Which sounds mighty good, for it can make a world of difference to me and the whole country. Only I just don’t know what to think or believe, Montana. There are quite a few ranches along in here now, and the railroad offers big prices for a right-of-way—but not for cash. They want to pay in stock of the company. And that might turn out to be a lot better than cash, as they claim. Only I’m from Missouri.
“They offer more stock as a part of the deal—for cash, or for mortgages on our herds and land. And to top it all, as you’ll have heard, there’s been a big gold strike, and prospectors have swarmed in like flies on a screen door with supper on the stove. Duarf has mushroomed to what you might call a city in a matter of weeks. Everybody’s drunk with all the excitement, and most of my neighbors have gone in on the railroad’s deal, swallowing the bait—and maybe the hook. Maybe I’m a fool to hold out, to cheat myself of a fortune I could as easy as not pick up. But I’m as leery as a fox sniffing a trap.
“The proof seems to be that they’re building the railroad, doing all they say they will. But I’d sure like to have an unbiased opinion from somebody who knows mining camps as well as ranches. If you could get away and head this way and have a look, then give me an honest opinion, along with a fair appraisal of the deal, I’d sure appreciate it. And you won’t lose out on good wages while you’re taking your look.”
The promise of wages had been secondary. It was the situation, coupled with the spreading news of the new gold strike, along with the coming of the railroad, which had really intrigued Abbott. Coming at
a moment when he was more or less at a loose end, his friend’s plea for help had been the clincher.
Here he was. And outspread before his eyes, workmen were building the railroad, solidly tangible proof. And yet—
There’s sure enough a smell, he repeated. And it don’t tickle the nostrils like the bloom of June roses.