Desert Conquest, A. M. Chisholm [best reads .TXT] 📗

along in that baking hell, I kept thinking of a cool spring we had on our place when I was a boy. It bubbled up in moss at the foot of a big cedar, and I used to lie flat and drink till I couldn't hold any more. It was the sweetest water in the world. All those days I tortured myself by thinking of it. I'd have given my soul, if I have one, to satisfy my thirst at that spring. And that's how I feel about you. I want your love as I wanted that water."

"I'm very sorry," she said. "It's out of the question."

"But why?" he demanded. "Give me a chance. I'm not a monster. Or do you mean that you care for somebody else? Is that it? Do you care anything for that Dunne? A fellow that's in love with another woman!"

Even in the dying light he could see the dark flush that surged over cheek and brow. She rose to the full height of her lithe figure, facing him.

"No, I don't!" she flamed. "But if I did what business would it be of yours? Casey Dunne is my friend—a gentleman—which is more than you seem to be, Mr. Farwell."

She took a step toward him in her indignation. Suddenly, with a sweep of his arm, he clipped her to him, kissing her on forehead and cheek. She struck him in the face with her clenched fist driven by muscles as hard as an athlete's.

"You great brute!" she panted.

With the blow and the words, Farwell's moment of madness passed. He held her from him at arm's length.

"A brute!" he said. "You're right. I didn't know it before. Now, I do. How can I put myself right with you?"

"Let me go!" she cried.

As he released her she heard the quick pad of running feet. Out of the dusk behind her bounded young Sandy McCrae. He came like a young wolf to its first kill, his lips lifted in a snarl. In his right hand lay a long-barrelled, black Colt's.

"Sheila!" he cried. "What's the matter? Who's this? What in—ah!"

The gun leaped up. Instinctively she threw out her hand, striking it as he pulled the trigger. A thin stream of flame blazed almost into Farwell's face, and the sharp report split the evening silence into fragments. Something like a questing finger of death ran through his hair, and his hat twitched from his head, to flutter down softly ten feet away. But he was unhurt.

Sheila locked both arms around her brother's, dragging it down.

"No, no, no!" she cried. "I tell you no, Sandy! Don't shoot again. It's a mistake."

He wrenched furiously to free his hand. "Mistake!" he shouted. "He was holding you! I saw him. I heard you. Let go. I'll blow his heart out!"

But she clung to his arm. "It's a mistake, Sandy, I tell you! Can't you understand me? Don't use that gun. I won't let you. Give it to me!"

He ceased his attempts to free his arm. "All right, Sheila. I won't shoot—this time. You, Farwell, what have you got to say for yourself?"

"Mighty little," Farwell replied. "I asked your sister to marry me, and she refused. I kissed her against her will. That's all—and plenty. If you want my opinion, I think I ought to be shot."

Sandy glared at him, taken aback by this frank admission.

"If she hadn't jolted my hand you sure would have been," he said grimly. "You're mighty lucky to be alive right now. After this if I see you——"

"Shut up, Sandy!" Sheila interrupted authoritatively, with sisterly directness. "I'm quite able to look after my own affairs. Mr. Farwell is sorry. You be white enough to let it go that way."

"It's up to you, if you want it," Sandy replied. "If you can stand for a thing like that once I can. But not twice."

"There won't be any twice. Shall we go to the house, Mr. Farwell?"

Farwell, amazed, fell into step with her. He had expected to be overwhelmed with reproaches, to face a storm of feminine anger. Still, he could not think that she was palliating his offence; and he was quite aware that she had saved his life. Young McCrae, in offended dignity, stalked in front.

"I want you to know," said Farwell, "that I'm utterly ashamed of myself. To prove it I'm going to do the best I can. I'm going to wire in my resignation, and I'm going away."

"Don't."

"What?" he exclaimed incredulously.

"Don't. You are sorry, and that's the main thing. We won't mention it again. And neither will Sandy. But for a while you must not come here."

"I'll do anything," he said. "I think you are the best girl on earth."

Sheila did not reply; but she did not reprove him.

Mrs. McCrae, looking somewhat anxious, met them at the house.

"I heard a shot," she said. "Was it you, Sandy?"

"Yes," her son replied.

"What did you shoot at?"

The young man glanced at Farwell from the corner of his eye.

"A skunk," he replied. "I missed him."

Sheila bit her lip angrily. Farwell took his medicine in silence.

CHAPTER XXI

A week sufficed to put the ranchers' ditches and dams in condition to take care of water; but at the end of that time there was little water to take care of. It was being diverted into the company's ditch system. Their ditches were running full, emptying upon lands on which scarcely a pretence of cultivation was being made, while the actual farmers, just when they needed it most, had barely sufficient water for their domestic purposes, for stock, and for their small gardens. There was none for the main crops in the fields.

Naturally the crops suffered, the grain most of all. A series of hot, dry winds came. With water they would have done little or no damage; without it the leaves curled, shrivelled, and turned pale, starving for lack of moisture. And the peculiarly galling feature of it was that the water which would have meant so much was practically running to waste.

In spite of these troubles Casey managed to devote time to his guests. His projected excursion to the foothills was abandoned, but he and Clyde rode almost daily. He had reserved his little gray mare, Dolly, for her use, and she was becoming, if not expert, at least confident in the saddle.

She grew to love the long evenings, the soft twilights, the warm, sweet scent of the grasses, and the great stillness broken only by an occasional word and the beat of willing hoofs. On these evening rides she allowed her imagination to run riot. It pleased her to pretend that she and Casey were the only inhabitants of the land—an Eve and Adam of the West, pioneers of a remote civilization. All day she looked forward to this hour or two; at night, in her bed, she lived them over, recreating each mile, each word, each little thing—how the great owl had sailed ghostly across their path, the gray shape of a coyote fading into the dusk, the young broods of grouse hiding in the grass.

Occasionally she undertook to analyze her feelings toward Casey Dunne, but the result was indefinite. She enjoyed his companionship, looked forward to it, remembered his words, his tricks of manner and speech. But these things, she told herself, were not conclusive.

His sentiments she had no means of judging. He was forever doing little things to please her; but then he did as much for others. At times he was confidential; but he seldom talked of himself, his confidences taking the form of allowing her to share his private viewpoint, revealing to some extent his mental processes. But he had never said one word which indicated more than friendship. Clyde saw little of Sheila McCrae. The latter had ridden over once or twice to see, as she said, how Casey was treating them. On these occasions Clyde experienced a recurrence of latent hostility. Sheila took no pains whatever with her appearance. She came in a worn riding costume, plain, serviceable, workmanlike; and she talked water and crops and stock with Casey and McHale, avoiding more feminine topics. If there was any understanding between her and Casey it did not appear to Clyde. But it was this unreasoning hostility more than anything else which made Clyde doubt herself. Was it, she wondered, in reality jealousy?

She put the thought from her indignantly, but it refused to be banished. She even catalogued her attractions, comparing them with the other girl's. The balance was in her favour; but in the end she felt ashamed of herself. Why should she do this? She found no satisfactory reply.

After a week of the water famine she saw a change in her host. He was more silent, thoughtful. Often when they rode together he had nothing to say, staring at the horizon with narrowed eyes.

"Do you ever tell anybody your troubles?" she asked abruptly one evening. They were riding slowly homeward, and the silence had been especially marked.

"Not very often," Casey replied. "People I've met have usually had enough of their own. They didn't want to hear mine."

"Well, I haven't many troubles, and I'd like to share yours, if I may. I suppose it's this water question."

"Why, yes," he admitted. "It's getting to be a mighty hard thing to swallow—and look pleasant."

"I know." She nodded sympathetically. "You feel helpless."

"Not that exactly. The difficulty is to know just what to do—whether to do anything or not. The boys are very hostile. It wouldn't take much to start them."

"In what direction?"

"In any that would give action. They'd like nothing better than open war."

She exclaimed at the words. "Surely there's no possibility of that?"

"More than a possibility," he returned gravely. "Water is a necessity to us. The people who have taken it do not require it. They have established what is practically an armed camp. Also they have brought in a number of hard citizens—what are known as 'gunmen'—to overawe us. These patrol their ditch system, and warn us to keep away from it. It is guarded at every important point. Not satisfied with this, some of these fellows have been apparently looking for trouble in town and elsewhere. One of these fine days they will get it."

He shook his head forebodingly. They topped a rise as he spoke. Below them lay the line of the company's main canal. As they rode down to it a man on a horse seemed to appear from nowhere in particular, and came toward them. As he drew nearer Casey recognized the man Cross.

Cross raised his hat in acknowledgment of Clyde's presence. But his words to Casey were very much to the point.

"You got notice to keep off this property," said he.

"Well?" said Casey.

"Do it," said Cross. "Hike—meanin' you, understand, and not the lady. She's plumb welcome to ride where she likes. I savvy your game, Dunne. You ain't got nerve enough to ride out here alone, and you bring a woman with you to play safe."

Casey paled with anger beneath his tan. "Mr. Cross," he said quietly, "that goes—because the lady is with me. But I rather think one of us will stay in this country a long time."

"Cheap bluff," Cross sneered. "You ain't goin' to prospect round these ditches, linin' them up for powder. Come here alone, and I'll make you eat the sights off of my gun."

Casey laughed softly—with him most dangerous of signs.

"Mr. Cross, you really amuse me. I won't argue the point just now. Later, perhaps. Good evening."

Clyde had listened in amazement. Once more she had experienced the sensation of standing on the brink of tragedy. Once more it had failed to occur.

"And that's one of the gunmen," said Casey. "That's what we have been putting up with. I think it will have to stop."

"Don't get into any trouble," she begged. "Promise me you won't. What do you care what men like that say?"

"I'm partly human," he replied grimly. "I can stand as much as most men, but there are some things I won't stand. I'm not going