Chapter 10

Casey Dunne, busily engaged in strengthening a working harness with rivets, looked up as a shadow fell across the morning sunlight. The shadow belonged to Tom McHale.

McHale, like Dunne himself, had seen rough times. Older than his employer, he had wandered up and down the West in the good old days of cheap land and no barbed wire, engaged in the congenial, youthful occupation of seeing as much country as he could. In the process, he had turned his hand to almost everything which had fresh air as a collateral, from riding for a cattle outfit to killing meat for railway camps. He and Dunne had come into the Coldstream country at nearly the same time; but Dunne had some money and McHale none at all. Dunne bought land and hired McHale. They worked side by side to make the ranch. McHale bought forty acres from Dunne and worked out the price, bought more, and was still working it out. But apart from financial matters they were fast friends, and either would have trusted the other with anything he possessed.

"Say," said McHale, "there's something wrong. Our ditches ain't runnin' more'n half full."

Casey put down the hammer. "Maybe the ditch is plugged somewhere."

"She may be, but it ain't likely. I've followed her quite a piece. So I come to get me a cayuse to go the rest of the way."

"I'll go with you," said Casey, throwing the harness on a peg.

In five minutes they were loping easily along the ditch, with sharp eyes for possible obstructions. As McHale had said, it was running not half full, and seemed to be falling. The strong, deep, gurgling note of a full head of water was gone. Instead was a mere babble.

So far as they could see, the flow was unhindered by obstacles; there was no break in the banks. Even around the treacherous sidehill there was no more than the usual seepage. And so at last they rode down to the Coldstream itself, to the intake of the ditch, a rude wing dam of logs, brush, and sand bags, which, nevertheless, had served them excellently heretofore.

"I'm an Injun," McHale, ejaculated, "if the whole durn creek ain't lowered!" Because he came from a land of real rivers, he invariably referred to the Coldstream thus slightingly.

But unmistakably it had fallen. Half the dam appeared above the surface, slimy, weed-grown, darkly water-soaked. Naturally, with the falling of the water, the ditch had partially failed.

The two men looked at each other. The same thought was present in the mind of each. It was barely possible that a land or rock slide somewhere high upstream had dammed or diverted the current; but it was most improbable. The cause was nearer to seek, the agency extremely human.

McHale bit into fresh consolation and spat in the direction of the inadequate dam.

"I reckon they've started in on us," he observed.

"Looks like it," Casey agreed.

"We need water now the worst way. I was figurin' on shootin' a big head on to the clover, and after that on to the oats. They sure need it. What's runnin' now ain't no use to us. We got to have more."

"No doubt about that, Tom," said Casey. "We'll ride up to their infernal dam and see just what's doing."

"Good enough!" cried McHale, his eyes lighting up. "But say, Casey, them ditch-and-dam boys ain't no meek-and-lowly outfit. Some of 'em is plumb hard-faced. How'd it be if I scattered back to the ranch first. I ain't packed a gun steady since I got to be a hayseed, but----"

"What do you want of a gun? We're just going to look at things and have a talk with Farwell."

"You never know when you'll need a gun," McHale asserted, as an incontrovertible general proposition.

"You won't need it this time. Come along."

It was almost midday when they came in sight of the construction camp beside the dam. To their surprise, a barbed wire fence had been thrown around it, enclosing an area of some twenty acres. On the trail, a space had been left for a gate, but it had not yet been hung. Beside it stood a post bearing a notice board, and, sitting with his back against the post, a man rested, smoking. As they came up, he rose and sauntered into the trail between the gate-posts.

"Hey you, hold on there!" he said.

Dunne and McHale pulled up.

"Look a-here, friend," said the latter, "do you think you're one of them never-sag gates, or a mountain, or what? You want to see a doctor about them delusions. They'll sure get you into trouble some day."

"That'll be all right about me," the big guardian of the gate returned. "Just read that notice. This is private property."

They read it. It was of the "no-admittance" variety, and forbade entrance to all individuals not in the company's employ.

"We've got business here, and we're going in," said Casey, and began to walk his horse forward.

The man caught the bridle with one hand. The other he thrust into his pocket.

"You get back now," he ordered, "or you'll walk home."

Dunne stopped instantly. His companion's hand made one lightninglike motion, and perforce came up empty.

"And this," said Mr. McHale mournfully--"this was the time I didn't need a gun!"

"Well, you don't need it, do you?" said Casey. "Observe, the gentleman still keeps his sawed-off yeggman's delight in his pocket. Pull it, friend, pull it! Don't scorch the cloth by pressing the trigger where it is. Steady, Shiner, while the gentleman shoots you!"

The guardian smiled sardonically. "Amuse yourselves, boys, but don't crowd in on me."

"Just as you say," replied Casey. "By the way, you needn't tire your arm holding my horse. He'll stand. Besides, I don't like it."

The man released the bridle and stepped back. "Make this easy for me, boys, I don't want trouble, but I got my instructions."

"Now, you listen here," said McHale. "Lemme tell you something: It's just hell's tender mercy on you I ain't got a gun. If I'd 'a' had it, you'd been beef by the trail right now."

"There's always two chances to be the beef," the other returned, unmoved. "Go fill your hand before you talk to me."

McHale grinned at him. "I like you better than I did, partner. Next time you won't have no kick on what I hold."

"We want to see Farwell," said Casey.

"Why couldn't you say that before?" the guardian returned. "I'll take a chance on you. Go in."

They found Farwell at his quarters before a table covered with prints and tracings.

"What can I do for you?" he asked curtly.

"My ditch has gone half dry," Casey replied. "I observe, too, that the river is lower than usual; which, of course, accounts for the ditch. It occurred to me that perhaps you might account for the river."

"We have begun to take water for our lands," Farwell told him. "Possibly that has something to do with it."

"I shouldn't wonder," Casey agreed dryly. "Why are you taking water now?"

"That," said Farwell deliberately, "is entirely our own affair."

"It affects us. You can't possibly use the water, because your lands are not cultivated."

"The water benefits the land," Farwell rejoined coldly. "It shows intending purchasers that we are actually delivering a sufficient quantity of water. Our use of it is legitimate."

"It's a low-down, _cultus_ trick, if you ask me!" McHale interjected forcefully.

"I didn't ask you," snapped Farwell; "but I'll tell you what I'll do. You make another remark like that, and I'll fire you out through that door."

McHale ignored Casey's significant glance.

"That door there?" he asked innocently. "That big, wide door leadin' right outside into all that fresh air? You don't mean that one?"

"That's the one," Farwell returned angrily.

"Well, well, well!" said McHale, in mock wonder. "You don't say? And it looks just like a common, ordinary door, too. Do you reckon you got time right now to show me how it works?"

"Quit it, Tom," said Casey. "Farwell, I want to get right down to case cards. This is a raw deal. I ask you not to take water that you can't use."

"Not to mince matters with you, Dunne," Farwell returned, "I may as well say that we intend to take as much as we like and when we like. There's plenty of water left in the river. It's merely a question of building your dams to catch it."

"Will you say that there will be plenty when your big dam is finished?"

Farwell lifted his big shoulders in a shrug which coupled utter indifference with an implication that the future was in the hands of Providence.

"Good Lord, Dunne, there's no use talking about that!" said he. "We will take what water we want. You get what is left. Is that plain?"

"Yes," said Casey quietly. "I won't bother you any more."

"But I will," said McHale. "I'll just bother you to make good that bluff of yours about firin' me out of here. Why, you durn, low-flung----"

"Quit it!" Casey interrupted. "Stay where you are, Farwell, I'm not going to have a scrap. Tom, you come with me."

"Oh, well, just as you say, Casey," grumbled McHale. "I ain't hostile, special. Only I don't want him to run no blazers on me. He----"

But Casey got him outside and administered a vitriolic lecture that had some effect.

"I'm sorry, Casey," McHale acknowledged, contritely. "I s'pose I ought to known better. But that gent with the gun and Farwell between them got me goin'. Honest, I never hunted trouble in my life. It just naturally tracks up on me when I'm lyin' all quiet in camp. Course, it has to be took care of when it comes."

"There'll be enough to keep you busy," said Casey grimly. And apparently in instant fulfilment of the prophecy came the short, decisive bark of a six-shooter. By the sound, the shot had been fired outside the camp, in the direction of the gate.

"It's that cuss that held us up!" snarled McHale, and swore viciously.

Both men went up into their saddles as if catapulted from the earth. McHale yelled as he hit the leather--a wild, ear-splitting screech, the old trouble cry of his kind in days gone by--and both horses leaped frantically into motion, accomplishing the feat peculiar to cow and polo ponies of attaining their maximum speed in three jumps. They surged around the medley of tents and shacks, and came into the open neck and neck, running like singed cats.

A few hundred yards away, where the new sign-board stood beside the trail a horse struggled to rise, heaved its fore quarters up, and crashed down again, kicking in agony, raising a cloud of dust. Facing it, bending slightly forward, stood a man, holding a gun in his right hand.

Suddenly out of the dust cloud staggered a second, who rushed at the first, head down, extended fingers wildly clutching, and as he came he bellowed hoarsely the wild-bull cry of the fighting male, crazed with pain or anger. The gun in the hand of the first man flashed up and cut down; and, as it hung for an instant at the level, the report rapped through the still air. But the other, apparently unhurt, charged into him, and both went down together.

"It's big Oscar!" cried McHale. "That feller downed his horse. Holy catamounts! Look at them mix it! And here's the whole camp a-boilin' after us! Casey, did I hear you say this was the day I didn't need a gun?"

Before they could pull up they almost ran over the fighting men. The two were locked in ferocious grips. The big guardian of the gate was fighting for his life, silently, with clenched teeth, every cord and muscle and vein standing out with the heartbreaking strain put upon them.

For the big Swede was the stronger man. Ordinarily mild and sweet-tempered, he was now a wild beast. Foam blew from his mouth and flecked his soft, golden beard, and he rumbled and snarled, beast-like, in his throat. He made no attempt to strike or to avoid the blows which beat against his face; but with one arm around his enemy's neck, the hand gripping the nearer side of the jaw, and the other hand pushing at it, he strove to break his neck. Little by little he twisted it. Gradually the chin pointed to the shoulder, almost past it. It seemed that with the fraction of an inch more the vertebral column must crack like a stick of candy. But the hand on the jaw slipped, and the chin, released, shot back again, to be tucked desperately down against the breastbone.

"Get in here and pull Oscar off!" cried Casey as he leaped from his horse.

"Not in a thousand years," McHale responded. "He can kill him. Let him do it. Serve the cuss right."

"You cursed fool!" snarled Casey. "That gang will be here in half a holy minute. They'll pound Oscar to death if he's fighting then. Here, you crazy Swede, let go! Let go, I say! It's me--Casey Dunne!"

But Oscar was past reason. Once more he had got the palm of his hand beneath that stubborn chin and was lifting it from its shelter. As he put forth his huge strength, he roared out a torrent of Scandinavian oaths, interspersed with the more hardy varieties of Anglo-Saxon epithets.

"Catch hold of him," Casey ordered. "Jam your arm into his windpipe while I break his grip." As he spoke, he kicked the big Swede sharply on the left biceps. For an instant that mighty arm was paralyzed. Casey grasped his wrists and dragged them loose, while McHale, his forearm across the huge, bull-like throat, heaved back.

Oscar came apart from his victim slowly and reluctantly, as a deeply rooted stump yields to the pull of a purchase.

"He kel my Olga! He kel my Olga!" he vociferated. "He shoot her yust like she ban von vulf! By the yumpin' Yudas, you let me go!"

"Keep quiet, keep quiet, I tell you!" cried Casey. "You can get him later. See this bunch coming? They'll kill you with their shovels in half a minute."

The rush of men was almost upon them. They carried the tools which were in their hands the moment the shots were fired--mixing shovels, hoes, axes, pinch bars, and odd bits of wood and iron caught up on the impulse of the instant. Behind, straining every muscle to reach the front, ran Farwell.

Meanwhile Oscar's opponent had risen unsteadily to his feet. His eyes searched the ground, and he made a sudden dive. But McHale was before him.

He swooped on the revolver half buried in the dust, and whirled on the first comers, holding the weapon jammed tightly in front of his right hip.

"Don't crowd in on us with them shovels and things," he advised grimly. "There's lots of room right where you are."

The rush stopped abruptly. An ugly, short-barrelled gun in the hand of a man who bore all the earmarks of a hip shot was not to be treated lightly. There were rough and tough men in the crowd who were quite ready for trouble; but their readiness did not extend to rushing a gunman unless an urgent necessity existed.

Farwell broke through them, breathless from a sprint at top speed. He paid no attention whatever to McHale's weapon.

"What's the matter here?" he demanded. "You, Lewis, speak up!"

"This batty Swede tried to ride over me," Lewis replied. "I give him fair warnin', and then I downed his horse. When he hits the dirt he goes on the prod. These fellers pulled him off of me. That one's got my gun."

"You bet I have!" McHale interjected. "You tried to plug Oscar. I seen you cut down on him at about ten feet--and miss. Looks like you ain't got the nerve to hit anything that's _comin'_ for you. You sorter confines your slaughter to harmless cayuses and such."

"Guess again," said Lewis, unmoved. "I thought I could stand the Swede off, that's why. I shot two foot high on purpose."

"You kel my Olga!" shouted Oscar. "Yust wait, you faller. Ay gat my goose gun, and Ay blow you all to hal! By Yudas, Ay gat skvare kvick!"

"This is crowding things," said Casey. "Mr. Farwell, you really must not plant gunmen by the trails with instructions to shoot our horses."

"Nobody has any such instructions," said Farwell. "This man tried to ride Lewis down, and he protected himself. I'm sorry it occurred, but we are not to blame."

"Without arguing that point," said Casey, "I warn you that we won't stand this sort of thing."

"If you fellows will keep off our lands there will be no trouble," Farwell responded. "We don't want you, and we won't have you. If you come on business, of course, that's different. Otherwise keep away. Also we don't want your stock grazing on our property."

"We may as well have an understanding while we're about it," said Casey. "The next man who pulls a gun on me--this Lewis, or anybody else--will have to beat me to the shooting. If you don't want your lands used as part of the range, fence them off. Don't interfere with a single head of my stock, either. And, if I were in your place, I'd offer this man about two hundred dollars for his mare, and throw in an apology."

"But you're not in my place," snapped Farwell. "Nobody is going to pull a gun on you if you behave yourself. If this man puts in a claim for his horse, I'll consider it, but I won't promise anything." He turned to his men. "You get back to work, the lot of you." Without further words, he strode off to the camp.

Lewis stepped up to McHale. "I'll take my gun if you're through with it."

McHale handed him the weapon.

"I don't reckon she's accurate at much over ten yards," he observed. "If I was you, I'd fix myself with a good belt gun. It ain't unlikely I packs one myself after this, and we might meet up."

"Organize yourself the way you want to," said Lewis carelessly, slipping the weapon in his pocket. "And if you're a friend of that big Swede, tell him not to look for me too hard. I don't want to hurt him; but I ain't taking chances on no goose guns." He nodded and marched off after the others.

The three men, left alone, stood in silence for a moment. Then Oscar, with a rumbling curse, began to strip saddle and bridle from his dead pet mare, the tears running down his cheeks.

"And now what?" asked McHale.

"Now," Casey replied, "I guess we've got to make good."