BACK in the beginning, when the rape of the West began, the universal intention of cattleman and miner had been to rip out a fortune in a hurry. Nobody was concerned about the land or its future. That was still the thought when Henry Stall, a German butcher-boy, come to California to make his fortune, first set foot in San Francisco.
Frugal and industrious, he proved an apt pupil. Fifteen years later, men were calling him the cattle-king as he journeyed up and down the San Joaquin, his note-book in his pocket. It was his own domain; his by right of conquest.
“On March 16th, and again a week later, seated in a rowboat, we travelled back and forth across the area herein described,” two of his men made sworn affidavit to the U. S. Land Office in an action looking toward the acquiring of still more land. The two men were in the rowboat, as they testified; but they failed to state that the rowboat had been lashed to a wagon and that a team of horses had drawn them over the land in question. It was typical of Henry Stall.
With his chain-store mind and mania for expansion, it was inevitable that he should invade Nevada and later, Oregon. In this semi-desert country there was an abundance of range, but precious little water. Immediately, he began to prospect for it, filing on every creek and spring he found unused, making them his own by the simple expedient of proving his priority and a real or fancied use of the waters in question. Once established, those rights were his forever, and he foresaw that through them he would dominate this country sooner or later even as he did the San Joaquin.
That thought had been in his mind the August day he first rode into Squaw Valley. Other than the reservation, it was all uninhabited public domain, open to entry. With dummy entrymen he could have homesteaded most of it, or bought it in for the proverbial song. He was not minded to do either, for without the reservation there was not enough good range in sight to interest him. It satisfied him to buy a few scattered acres and establish what water rights he could.
In the twelve years that had intervened, one small outfit after another had moved into the valley, using water that he considered his. He made no protest, willing to bide his time until such a day as this arrived. He knew the passing years had not outlawed his rights—not with the legal talent he could send to the firing line. Those old water rights were an ace in the hole now.
If he rode into Wild Horse outwardly his usual phlegmatic self, he was aware of the hostile glances levelled at him. It was no more than he expected. In the crowd he recognized Dan Crockett, Joe Gault and one or two others.
“I don’t want to be hard on these Squaw Valley men,” he said to himself. “If I get the reservation, I’ll buy them out at a fair price.” His idea of a fair price, of course. “But they can’t expect to use my water if they band together and try to freeze me out.”
He rode ahead with Letty and Judd. A dozen South Fork men followed close behind.
“Reb’s here already,” Judd informed him as they neared the court-house. “Over there in front of the sheriff’s office.”
“So I see.” The old man glanced at his watch. It was five minutes to twelve. “I’m going up and talk to Montana before the sale starts. You tell Mr. Russell I don’t want any trouble if it can be avoided.
Letty sighed wearily as she slipped from her saddle. The long, gruelling ride had told on her more than on her father.
“You better stay here with Mr. Case,” he advised.
“No, I’ll go up with you,” she insisted. “It won’t look so warlike if I go along.”
Montana expected the old man to come up. He was surprised to find Letty with him. It was the first time he had seen her in more than a year—a period in which he had tried unsuccessfully to keep memory of her out of his thoughts.
His belated “Good-morning,” won no response from old Henry. Letty nodded, her manner cool and aloof and in marked contrast to the warm friendliness of the days when he had been a Bar S man.
It hurt; but he told himself he could expect nothing else under the circumstances. She refused the chair he offered her.
“I thought you were going to keep me posted about this matter,” old Slick-ear queried without preamble of any sort.
“I changed my mind about that, Mr. Stall,” Montana answered with equal bluntness. “I don’t mind telling you I am sorry to see you here.”
That was direct enough. The old man drew down his shaggy eyebrows.
“Your gratitude for the good wages I paid you for three years, eh?”
“You may not believe it, but gratitude had something to do with it—though I aim to be worthy of my hire. I never heard anyone accuse you of overpaying a man.”
It was a pertinent shot. Letty had difficulty keeping a twinkle out of her eyes as she saw her father’s head go up indignantly.
“You are entitled to your opinion,” he exclaimed sharply. “But you haven’t any right to discriminate against me.”
“Neither against nor for you,” Montana supplemented.
It nettled the old man to be rebuffed so completely.
“I didn’t come here to bandy words with you! The facts speak for themselves. When a man goes to all the bother you have about something that doesn’t concern him, I begin to wonder what he’s getting out of it.”
Jim refused to lose his temper.
“I suppose you mean I may be trying to feather my own nest,” he said. “All I hoped to do was pull out of this with a clean conscience. But I won’t try to disabuse your mind on that. You think what you please.”
“You can’t deny your conduct has been very—irregular, to say the least.”
“Possibly irregular, but not illegal, Mr. Stall. I have been careful about that.”
“Agents have been removed for less.”
The threat failed to have the desired effect. Jim tapped the letter on his desk.
“I have already removed myself,” he said grimly. “I’ll be looking for a job next month.”
Letty could not help feeling that her father was coming off second best in this tilt of words. He nervously fingered the heavy gold watch chain that spanned his vest as he tried to dissemble his rage.
“A smart Aleck gets a little authority and disrupts a whole county,” he grumbled. “Your meddling is bound to cause trouble.”
“I am sorry if that is so,” Jim said thoughtfully. “It’s been the one thing I wanted to avoid. You’re a rich man, Mr. Stall. You don’t need an acre of this Squaw Valley land. But take Morrow, or Gault, or Dan Crockett—a dozen others—what have they got? They’re just getting by, that’s all. Beef is down; it’s been a dry spring. They won’t make hay enough to carry them through next winter. I figured if they could borrow from the bank and pick up some of this reservation they’d get enough water and bottom land to see ’em through. It wouldn’t make any of them rich, but it would put them on their feet.”
This appeal to his sympathy fell on deaf ears, as Jim expected.
“I’m sorry,” the old man said, “but you can’t expect me to wet-nurse the cattle business. Nobody ever helped me; what I’ve got I got for myself. All I can do to take care of my own business.”
“Exactly! And it will be your business to run every one of these little fellows out of Squaw Valley. I know how you work.”
Anger began to run away with the old man. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded indignantly.
Jim’s answer was unhurried.
“I think you know what I mean, Mr. Stall. I happened to discover that you filed on most of the water over there years ago. Soon as you get the reservation, you’ll go to court and prove up on those rights. It will be the beginning of the end for the little fellows. They’ll have some range, but you’ll have their water, and they can do one of two things: Move on without a dime, or sell out to you at your own terms.”
The charge left old Slick-ear speechless for a moment. His stubby mustache bristled like the quills on a porcupine’s back.
Letty put an arm about him protectively. The blood had drained away from her cheeks.
“Father—don’t bother to answer anything as absurd as that! You’ve always been fair—more than fair—” She whirled on Montana fiercely. “I never thought you could be that contemptible.”
He had never seen her like that before, superb in her indignation. And yet, he knew he had voiced only the truth.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he said unhappily. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I’m glad I came! It’s been very—enlightening.”
The clock was striking twelve. Old Henry reached for his hat.
“Come on, Letty; we’ll go downstairs. It’s time for the sale to begin.” He turned to Montana for a parting shot. “I let those people use my water for twelve years so you can accuse me of wanting to drive them out, eh? Well, I’m here, and I didn’t come alone. I don’t intend to be intimidated.”
“Neither do I, Mr. Stall. I haven’t any paid warriors to back me up, but if I knew how to keep you from grabbing Squaw Valley I’d do it.”
“If you knew how, eh?” Old Slick-ear’s voice dripped with contempt. “You won’t have much to do about it, Montana. This is not my first land sale. You’ll run it off according to the rules of the Land Office. The property will go to the highest bidder!”
He started for the door. Letty followed him, her chin held high. Clearer than words it told Montana in what contempt she held him. A tortured look in his eyes, he stared after her until she disappeared down the stairs.
“I guess that’s final enough,” he mused bitterly. “Can’t blame her for stringing along with her father.”
He had always regarded his affection for Letty Stall as hopeless. Nothing else had led him to leave the Bar S at a time when it was apparent the old man would have made him foreman of one of his ranches in a few months.
Memories of pleasant days with her at the Willow Vista ranch smote him. It made him realize that even in his hopelessness he had never quite ceased to hope.
Everything about this business seemed to have gone wrong.
“Maybe it will bring me to my senses,” he thought, appalled anew by the absurdity of daring to aspire to her. Wealth, position—everything removed her from his world.
It occurred to him that he might advance his own interests by trying to placate her father.
“No, I can’t do that. He’s wrong about this, and I’m right, even though he’s got me at the end of a limb.”
This sale was the first one of importance that he had conducted. From a desk drawer he drew out his instructions and scanned them hastily. He had read them a score of times and knew them almost by heart. If Mr. Stall or anyone else wished to bid on the land as a whole, he would have to take the bid. He glanced over the terms under which the land might be sold, looking for a loophole or technicality he might invoke to defeat the old man even now.
As he was about to toss the letter back into his desk an idea flashed in his mind that pulled him up short. It intrigued him more the longer he considered it.
“If he does what I think he’ll do, it’ll be up to me to say yes or no,” he murmured aloud in his abstraction. “It’s Saturday—the bank is closed! He wouldn’t have an out!”
He failed to hear someone run up the stairs. It was Clem Harvey, his surveyor. There was always something breathless about Clem, as though he didn’t quite expect to finish what he had to say.
“Gee willikens, Jim,” he exclaimed excitedly, “don’t you know it’s twelve o’clock? Everybody’s waiting and people are beginning to get restless and——”
“I’m coming.”
Montana’s preoccupation caused Clem to push back his tattered Stetson and cock his head at him inquisitively.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong is there? Ain’t nothin’——”
“No, everything is all right, Clem.” Jim’s voice was hard and chilling. “Don’t you hear the birds singing?”
“Birds?” A baffled look crept into Clem’s watery eyes.
“Yeah, buzzards! . . . Come on, Let’s go!”