they put dummy homesteaders on every piece they can north o' the river. See?"
"But not south of the river in my country?"
The surveyor shook his head. "Guess it's a policy o' theirs not to bother with that country. Not now at least. But the way they're spreadin' it looks as if they mean to corral half of Dakota."
"I'm obliged," said Tom, starting for the door. "I'll see you on the ranch tomorrow, then."
"So you will." And as a last word, the surveyor added a warning. "Don't tell the land-office fella any more o' your business than's necessary. See?"
Tom grinned and turned into the street. Every section had its gossip, and quite evidently the surveyor fulfilled that function here. He discounted the man's warning fifty per cent by the time he had gone a block and an additional twenty-five per cent when he reached the land office. But after he had seen the official therein and had wrangled twenty minutes over a host of minor regulations he dropped the last discount. Petty rulers have a way of standing on their book of instructions and exercising their little quota of authority; the land-office agent at Nelson was inclined to ruffle Tom's fur the wrong way. Later, in the street again, he swore mildly to relieve his anger, mailed a pocketful of eastbound letters, and came squarely against his next piece of business.
It was a grim business, this canvassing of saloon keepers and merchants. Each time he put the question to them he understood he sowed another seed of trouble. It would be public knowledge within the hour that he sought San Saba, and thus a public feud was developed and nurtured. Nevertheless, he pursued the search until the train whistled across the desert and the town abandoned its chores and went out to the depot. At that point he gave up, got on his horse, and left Nelson. The engine dragged its string of cars to the depot and stopped, panting like a dog after a long chase. Smoke billowed from its funnelling stack. A scattering of gunshots announced the civic greeting, and a bell clanged through the sultry air.
From a distance Tom watched the train disgorge its travellers, then went on. And not until he was halfway home did it strike him he had avoided putting the question to the likeliest of all people—the United States Marshal. Why not? According to Eastern standards it should have been his first move. Weren't the law and the officers of the law for the purpose of maintaining justice? Theirs was the right to seek and—and perhaps to kill—San Saba. It wasn't his right.
Oh, yes, he knew the argument from end to end. And throughout four or five years it had become a part of his belief. Yet how swiftly the West had reclaimed him—how strong was the grip of the frontier code! A man must take care of his own quarrels, never delegate them. To shirk this was to confess weakness. And that weakness would follow him like an accusing finger wherever he went. He was the son of his father, a citizen of the land. For good or bad he had to live according to Western ethics. For good or bad.
The struggle was so strong in him that he stopped the horse and turned about, facing Nelson again, wistfully eyeing the horizon; all very well was this complicated reasoning in a complicated society. Back there they were sheltered by that thing they chose to call the law. Out here it was the other way around—the law's mantle never quite reached far enough. Beyond its fringes each man rode as a judge and a jury.
"No," he muttered, "I can't do it. It's my quarrel. I've got to settle it with San Saba myself. Now or twenty years from now."
And he went on toward his ranch, well knowing he had at that point thrown overboard most of what the East had give him. Somehow he felt the better for it. Life became less difficult; the face of the wide prairie seemed to be fairer, seemed to say, "you are mine." The guideposts of his life were few, but they were distinct, immovable: never to go back on his word; to give all humans the right to live the way they wished to live in return for that same right to himself; to uphold this right with the last breath of his body.
The train from the East brought Nelson's mail. And among other letters was a long set of directions for Barron Grist. He got these things weekly from the Eastern owners of the P.R.N., and usually they were but reminders of old instructions or slight additions. Going to the hotel with his ranch boss, who had ridden in a little before, he settled into a chair for a half hour's hard reading.
"Soon as I get this digested I'll go out with you," he told the ranch boss. "Wonder they wouldn't quit this nonsense. I know every syllable before I break the seal."
But he found, from the very first paragraph, that the P.R.N. had arrived at a new fork in the road and were ordering him to go out and accomplish certain chores. As he ran into the carefully detailed pages his smile vanished. Once he glanced up to the ranch boss with genuine amazement, murmuring, "My God!" Upon finishing, he sat in a study and, not satisfied, reread the whole letter. Suddenly he jammed it in his pocket and rose. "Come on, let's get away from this mess." Together, the pair rode west from town, following the same path Gillette had taken for a good distance. The ranch boss kept his peace a good two miles before asking, "Well, what's the excitement now? More cows, more contracts?"
Grist answered indirectly. "Sometimes I think those fellows back East are stark, staring crazy."
The ranch boss, who himself never had owned anything more valuable than a sixty-dollar saddle, felt he understood capitalists better than that. "Crazy? Well, I guess not. Not more'n ten per cent crazy, which is the rate of interest they risk their dollars on."
Grist shook his head. "The P.R.N. has got to make it twenty per cent, or consider business very poor. Now, do you know what they calmly tell me to go and do? Not satisfied with the land they own or control on the north of the Little Missouri, they've decided to take in the south side of the river. In other words, I've got to squat on both banks."
"Just like that," mused the ranch boss. "Just reach out an' embrace it atween both arms. Don't they know they're about three months too late to buy or scare the existin' occupants?"
"As to that," replied Grist, "I've got full authority to deal with the Texans. To purchase or to threaten."
"Do they say 'threaten'?" inquired the ranch boss.
"Of course not. You never heard an illegal sound issue from that bunch. But I'm supposed to read between lines. That's what I draw my pay for. Why didn't they spring this a couple of months earlier? Now I've got to argue and bargain—and Lord knows what else."
"That what else part of yore speech is correct," asseverated the ranch boss, rolling a cigarette. "Lessee—they's six outfits south o' the river now. Eapley, Diggerts, Love, O'Morrell, Wyatt, and Gillette. You'll pay high, Grist."
"Oh, I don't worry about spending money," was Grist's irritable answer. "It's their money, and they don't mind spending it on land. But it's the definite way they tell me to get it. No ifs or buts about the matter. Just go and get it. That bunch is up to something. By Joe, I feel sometimes like pulling out and letting the other fellow do all this drudgery—"
The ranch boss chuckled. "You'll think twice on that. Grist. The pay is plumb too good." He squinted at the sun. "It sure gets me. Now supposin' they pay the top price for every man's squatter right. Top prices for every man's herd, to boot. How do they expect to net a profit? I don't see it. Even sellin' rotten beef to the gov'ment won't pull 'em out of the red.
"It's not beef," said Grist.
"Then what is it?" demanded the ranch boss. "Gold? Shucks, no. What else is val'able?"
But Grist had no answer for the question. They had come to a lower ford of the river, and here he parted from his ranch boss. "I don't know the answer. All I know is that I've got to get it, one way or the other. If they won't sell..."
The
