style="font-size:15px;"> Hollis sat erect. “A newspaper!” he gasped. “A newspaper in this country? Why, man, a newspaper—”
The judge laughed. “So you will not have to go back East in order to be able to realize your ambition–you can own a newspaper here–your father’s newspaper–the Dry Bottom Kicker. It was quite a recent venture; I believe it appeared about a dozen times–intermittently. Ostensibly it was a weekly, but in reality it was printed at those times when your father’s affliction sat least heavily upon him. He used to hire a compositor from Las Vegas to set the type,–a man named Potter–a worthless sort of fellow, but a genius in his way–when sober. I suspect that much of the matter that went into the Kicker emanated from the brain of Dave Potter.”
Hollis’s smile revealed just a trace of derision. “You don’t happen to know how father happened to think that a newspaper would pay–in this place?” he asked.
The judge looked at him meditatively, a gleam of quiet amusement in his eyes. “I don’t remember to have said that the paper made any money for your father,” he returned slowly; “nor do I remember hearing your father say that he expected it to make any money. As I understand the situation, your father founded the paper on principle. He expected to use it as a weapon.”
“Please go on,” urged Hollis. “That strikes me as a rather Quixotic proceeding.”
“It was, rather,” admitted the judge; “that is, it would seem Quixotic as viewed by an Eastern newspaper man. But out here people are apt to ignore money and methods in considering results. After you have been here a while you will be able to see the force and truth of that statement. Your father was after results and he seized upon the idea of founding a newspaper as a means by which to obtain them. And I feel certain that had he lived he would have succeeded.”
“I plead ignorance,” said Hollis, watching the judge closely. “What particular result did my father desire?”
Judge Graney’s eyes gleamed with earnestness. He leaned forward, speaking slowly and distinctly.
“I am going to illustrate my point by giving you a brief history of your father’s experiences out here–as I had it from him. He came out here about fifteen years ago and took up a quarter-section of land over on Rabbit-Ear Creek, the present site of the Circle Bar ranch. For quite a few years he was a nester–as the small owner is called in this country, but he was unmolested for the reason that there were few large owners in the vicinity and each man was willing that his neighbor should succeed. Your father prospered and after a few years began to buy land. He finally acquired a thousand acres; he told me that at one time he had about five thousand head of cattle. Of course, these cattle could not live on your father’s thousand acres, but the ranges are free and the thousand acres answered very well as a headquarters.
“Eight years ago some men in Santa Fe organized what is known as the Union County Cattlemen’s Association. This company secured a section of land adjoining your father’s property, on the other side of Rabbit-Ear Creek. The company called its ranch the Circle Cross. Perhaps it strikes you as peculiar that the Association should have chosen a brand so closely resembling your father’s. I will digress long enough to explain the action.”
The judge drew out a pencil and picked up a piece of paper that lay near him on the desk, making some crude hieroglyphics and poising his pencil above them.
“Here,” he explained, indicating a sketch which he had drawn, “is the Circle Bar brand–a bar within a circle. And this–” indicating another sketch, “–is the Circle Cross–a cross within a circle. It is of course, perfectly obvious that all the Circle Cross company had to do when it desired to appropriate one of the Circle Bar cattle was to add a vertical bar to the Circle Bar brand and the brand became the Circle Cross. From a mechanical standpoint it was a very trifling operation, the manipulator of the brands having merely to apply the hot iron through a piece of wet blanket–that gives a new brand the appearance of age.
“To get back to the main subject. The new company called its ranch the Circle Cross and it erected new buildings within a few miles of the Circle Bar buildings. Not long after the advent of the new company it tried to buy the Circle Bar, but your father refused to sell. Bill Dunlavey, the Circle Cross manager, attempted to negotiate the purchase of the Circle Bar and when he was met with refusal hard words passed between him and your father. Not long after that your father began to miss cattle–rustlers began a systematic attack upon his herds. Your father recognized this thievery as the work of the Cattlemen’s Association and he fought back.
“A number of times he changed his brands but each time the company checkmated him. To illustrate: Your father changed his brand to appear thus:” The judge drew again on the paper. “That is the ‘Wine-Glass’ brand. You can see that it resembles a wine glass when held up vertically, though of course as it appeared on the Circle Bar cattle it lay on its side. But this move was futile, for among the Circle Cross cattle now appeared many branded with the sign of the ‘Hour-Glass,’ thus:” The judge drew again. “This was achieved by merely adding a semi-circle to the wine-glass, closing over the bowl.”
“As I have said your father altered his brand a good many times. But the Circle Bar cattle continued to disappear. Years of warfare followed. The Cattlemen’s Association lost no opportunity to harass your father or, for that matter, all the other small owners in the vicinity. Desperate, dissolute men were imported from Texas and Arizona, men who took delight in the shedding of human blood. These men roamed the ranges, stealing the Circle Bar cattle and killing Circle Bar cowboys. Your father had trouble in keeping men; in order to surround himself with enough men to protect his cattle and resist the aggressions of Dunlavey’s hired assassins he was forced to pay ruinous wages.
“Even then he could not prevent rustling. Dunlavey bribed his men; his herds dwindled; he saw that he was facing ruin if he did not devise some means to successfully cope with his enemies. He went over to Santa Fe to see the governor–a piffling carpet-bagger. He was told that the government was powerless; that the same condition existed all over the country, and that the government was unable to combat it. The Law had not come.
“Your father returned home, discouraged but not beaten. He approached the several other small owners in the vicinity, asking for co-operation and assistance. Fearful of Dunlavey’s wrath, the small owners refused to organize. But your father decided to carry on the fight alone. He recognized the fact that nothing but the Law could defeat the association’s aims, and he determined to force the Law into the Territory. With this end in view he established his newspaper. He succeeded in arousing public interest with the result that a court was established here.”
The judge smiled dryly, continuing: “Yes, the Law is here. Or what is more to the point, a representative of the Law is here. ‘I am the Law,’” he quoted, ironically. “But my hands are tied; this court is a mere travesty upon justice. The government at Washington has seen fit to send me here–alone. I can’t go out and get evidence; I couldn’t secure a conviction if I did. The people here who are not Dunlavey’s friends were afraid of him. I can’t get a jury. Dunlavey elects the sheriff–controls the election machinery. I am powerless–a mere figurehead. This is the situation in a nutshell. I could go into detail, but I imagine it is plain enough as it is.”
Hollis’s face had become gravely serious; his lips were straightened with an expression that hinted at the conflict that was going on in his mind.
“Isn’t there an army post near?” he questioned.
“Over at Fort Union–a hundred miles or so southwest. I have pleaded for a detail, but have been informed that it can’t be had; that the soldiers are needed to keep the Indians in order.
