Jediah spat on the ground, and a brown river of tobacco juice ran down his gray-whiskered chin. “And I betcha Tommy never opens his mouth to you about me bein’ responsible for the water he uses. Most ranchers gotta blow about their fences bein’ in good shape, about the hay they’re gonna cut, or about the cattle and the markets. Hell, son, they wouldn’t have no grass, no cows or nothin’, if it wasn’t for water. Yep, water controls everything in the West—and don’t you ever forget it.”
“And a fine place Tommy must have,” Kelsey cut in, eager to hear about the ranch.
“Hmm. So Tommy’s told you all about his place, eh?”
“He’s written to me since he left Scotland six years ago.” Kelsey’s face broke into a smile. “I haven’t seen him since I was fourteen. It’ll be a great time when we meet again.”
Jediah scratched under one arm. “Gotta get me some new clothes; been wearin’ these so damn long they’re ready to drop off. That’s why I’m headed for town. Tell Tommy I’ll be back soon.”
“How far is it to the ranch?”
“I dunno—maybe five or six miles yet. See that ridge over there—the long one runnin’ north and south with the peaks lookin’ over its shoulder? Ranch is right at the foot of it. We don’t measure distance out here; we just take a look and guess at it. All you have to do is follow the road.”
Kelsey looked at the long ridge. “That’s close.”
“Nothin’s as close as it looks in this country, son. You see a mountain and it’s so sharp and big you figure you can hop right over to it. Instead you walk until your belly’s up against your backbone.” Jediah shifted the chew of tobacco, making a bulge on his cheek, and looked across the land. “Great country, ain’t it? God’s own. Ain’t another like it on the face of the earth.”
Kelsey didn’t answer. One place like North Park was enough. If Jediah Walsh had ever known the green fields of Scotland . . .
“Grows on you, this country,” Jediah went on. “And it ain’t the way it looks on first acquaintance. Most good things don’t shine up fancy on first meetin’, whether it’s a man, a woman, or a country.”
He was quiet for a few moments and then added, “The Park’s more than a place; it’s a way of livin’, son. And you’re gonna fall in love with it or you’re gonna hate it the way a man can hate another man’s guts. Nobody I ever met has an in-between feelin’ about the Park.” Then he smiled a sudden warm smile that made his face startlingly young. “I gotta hunch about you. A big redheaded fella with eyes to match the sagebrush belongs in this country.” He swung into the saddle, looked at Kelsey for a long moment, and added, “So long, son. Come up to Big Creek Lake and see me—if Tommy don’t work the tail off you.”
Kelsey watched him ride up the hill, sitting so carelessly in the saddle. He drew a deep breath of the fresh air. Was there ever a man lived had such a stink to him as this Jediah Walsh? And he chuckled to himself as he moved on.
In the late afternoon Kelsey limped to the top of a low hill and stopped. There before him, maybe half a mile away, lay the ranch. Around the buildings the earth was vivid red, as though a big barrel of red paint had rolled down the ridge and broken open at the foot of it. And when he looked around he saw that all the land before him had the red color. Then he noticed the cattle; they were everywhere—on the brown meadows south of the ranch buildings, in the open land north of him, and on what appeared to be pasture there below him. He had never seen so many cattle, and there was something about them he found hard to describe. They seemed to belong to the earth; they were somehow a part of the grayish-red country with the wind blowing over it.
He went down the hill, wincing from the pain in his heels, opened the pole gate, and closed it carefully. He started following the road that led across the pasture toward the house, filled with impatience to see Tommy. And then his steps slowed, and finally he came to a stop, for the cows were close to him, their white faces lifted curiously as they looked at him. The sunlight touched their dark reddish-brown hides; they snorted and ran and then turned to study him, all the white faces toward him. How many were in this bunch—a hundred, two hundred? For a moment they made him think of a mass of enormous white daisies. He laughed at himself; it was a notion such as a woman might have. Then an excitement stirred in him. If all these cows were his he’d be a fair toff; he’d be like a laird in the old country! And suddenly he knew he liked cattle and wanted them for his own, and it was more than the money they would represent; it was a feeling deep in him as he looked at them. For the first time since he had left Scotland he felt right inside himself. And he left the road, walked into the sagebrush, putting out a hand toward the cows, saying softly, “Here, you lassies with white faces—don’t run from me.”
But they snorted loudly and fled, stirring up a fine red dust behind them. A distance away they turned once more. He smiled and limped on toward the ranch house, forgetting the pain in his tortured heels. There was no doubt about his future; as soon as he had any money to spare he’d buy a cow.
CHAPTER II
The two-story ranch house was sunk in the earth; the logs were bleached silver-gray from time and weather and chinked with the vivid red mud. A sagging fence surrounded the house, and the yard was choked with dead brown grass that hissed in the wind. Kelsey walked to the door and knocked. It swung open with a scraping sound and a man stood there, a stocky middle-aged man with a stubble of graying whiskers and mild blue eyes. He wore a dirty floursack apron tied around his middle and carried a big spoon in his hand. “Ya?” he said. “What you want, young fella? Boss ain’t hiring no men this time of year.”
Kelsey wet his parched lips. “I’m Tommy’s cousin from the old country.”
“Come in, come in! Hilder Larson, that’s me.” And the man thrust out a big red hand. “Pleased to meetcha. Tommy, he ain’t come in from chasin’ water yet, but he will soon. And Dalt, he ain’t in either. Sit here by the stove, young fella. You look plumb fagged.”
Kelsey lifted the tin dipper that hung over the washstand in the corner and plunged it into the water bucket. He drank, the water trickling over his chin. Then he sat down and took off his shoes. The blisters on his heels had broken and were bleeding.
Hilder made a clucking noise in his throat and got a basin of water. “You shove ’em in here. You get poison from them broke blisters if you ain’t careful.”
Kelsey lowered his burning feet into the cool water. Then he sat, looking around the kitchen, while Hilder cut up potatoes for supper. The log walls were smoked almost black and had been covered here and there with old newspapers; some, hanging almost free of the wall, rattled when a gust of wind struck the house. The place smelled of stale food, manure, and sweat. A milk bucket sat near the stove, stained with dried milk and dust; a thin crust of manure rimmed the bottom. Ashes were spilling out of the stove, and the woodbox was covered with grease. The floor looked as though it had never been touched by soap and water. My God, Kelsey thought, I’ve seen better places for pigs in the old country!
The door banged open. Kelsey looked up. A big man stood staring at him, a man with the broad Cameron nose, sharp black eyes, and thin black hair with a shine of red in it.
“Tommy!” Kelsey said, his heart filled with sudden gladness. “Tommy Cameron!”
The black eyes blinked. Then the thin lips spread in a smile. “It’s John’s boy, by God! Kelsey!” And he came forward and grabbed Kelsey’s shoulders with
