Chapter 21

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 to climb a tree for any man. However, I won't crowd things with Cross, though I know plenty of men that would, on that provocation. I'm all for peace and a quiet life. You won't think I'm afraid, I hope."

"Certainly not," she said indignantly. "You don't give me much of your confidence, but I know you better than to think such a thing. I wish you would tell me more of what is going on. Let me be your friend, and not merely your guest. Talk to me as you would to--Miss McCrae."

It was the first time she had spoken to him of Sheila. It was her challenge. She would be on the same footing.

"Sheila's different," he replied. "Sheila's one of us. I've known her for years. She's a good deal like a sister."

"Oh," she said, "a _sister_?"

To have saved her immortal soul she could not have kept the note of sceptical interrogation from the word. He laughed.

"Yes, a sister. Why, great Scott! you didn't think I was in love with her, did you, just because I call her by her first name? I think everything of her, but not in that way. She's a thousand times too good for me. Besides, she knows me too well. That's usually fatal to sentiment. That's why no man is a hero to his wife."

"How do you know he isn't? Kitty Wade simply worships her husband."

"Maybe. But I'll bet his pedestal isn't nearly so high as it was before they were married. When you marry, Miss Burnaby"--he smiled at her frankly--"you will occupy the pedestal yourself."

"Doesn't your rule work both ways?" she laughed.

"I won't admit it--to you, anyway."

"Why not--to me?"

"Because Wade tells me no man can be forced to incriminate himself," he replied.

Clyde glanced at him swiftly, flushing in the dusk. But she did not press for an explanation. She was satisfied. She was no longer jealous of Sheila McCrae.

When they arrived at the ranch Dunne took the horses to the stables. Clyde, entering the house, found Wade alone, deep in newspapers, the accumulation of a week which he had just received. There was a package of letters for Clyde.

"Look here, Clyde," said the lawyer. "Here's a funny thing." He held a newspaper open at the market page. "This Western Airline stock is as jumpy as a fever chart. For a while it went down and down and down, away below what I should think to be its intrinsic value. There was a rumour of a passed dividend. Nothing definite--merely a rumour. Then came another rumour of an application for a charter for a competing line. Both these stories seem to have brought out considerable stock. There was heavy selling. Likely the traders went short. I'll bet some of them were nipped, too, for the market went up without warning--yes, by George! bounced like a rubber ball."

Clyde looked up from a letter which enclosed a formal-looking statement. "What would send it up?"

"Buyers in excess of sellers--in other words, demand in excess of supply," Wade responded. "That's on the face of it. Probably not half a dozen men know the inside. Orders may have been issued to support the stock--that is, to buy all offered in order to keep the price from declining farther. It's hard to say, at this distance. It's possible that the depressing rumours may have originated with the very men who are now supporting the stock."

"Why should they do that?"

"To buy more cheaply shares which would be offered in consequence. It's funny, though," he continued, opening another paper. "Now, here's a later date--let's see--yes, here we are. The market opened five points higher than it closed on the preceding day, and it closed ten points above that opening. Holy Moses! do you know what that means?"

"Demand in excess of supply."

"Demand! Supply!" Wade echoed contemptuously. "Economics be hanged! It means a fight for Western Air. It means that somebody is willing to pay a fancy price for shares. Why? Because a few shares one way or the other mean the ownership of the road, the dictation of its policy. There's no other explanation. I wonder who----"

"Look at this," said Clyde. She handed him a telegram. He read:

Sell nothing whatever until you hear from me. Instruct Bradley & Gauss.

JIM.

Wade's lips puckered in a noiseless whistle. He did not need to be told that "Jim" was Clyde's uncle, wily old Jim Hess, of the Hess System. It was he who was out gunning for York and Western Air, and he had the reputation of getting what he went after. What his tactics had been Wade could only surmise. But the antics of the stock were proof that he was in earnest.

"Well," he queried, "what do you know about this, young lady? Have you been holding out on me?"

"I haven't much information," she replied. "Bradley & Gauss are my brokers. They have been buying Western Air for me as it was offered. There's their statement. Uncle Jim told me to buy it--said that it ought to be worth as much as Hess System some day."

"Heavens! What a tip!" Wade exclaimed. "This will be good news for Casey."

"I don't want him to know."

"Why not?"

"Well, he--he--that is, he might be disappointed. Uncle Jim may not get control. If he does he'll treat everybody fairly, of course. I don't want to raise false hopes."

"Considerate of you," said Wade, "not to say ingenious."

She flushed angrily for a moment, and then laughed.

"It's all the reason you'll get. Be a good friend, do. Promise! Also you are to say nothing to Kitty."

"Afraid of being jollied?"

"Mr. Wade, you are impertinent!" But her eyes laughed at him.

"I'll keep your dark secret," said Wade. "It will be a joke on Kitty!"

And so Casey Dunne was left in ignorance.