So Far from Spring. Peggy Simson Curry

and a pitchfork in the pile of manure and drove down the meadow, standing up front, his feet set wide apart and braced. Water sloshed up between the boards and drained off brown with manure stain. He came to where the small dam had broken and mended it carefully, tramping down the manure with his rubber-booted feet.

      Then he turned toward the hogback; on its lower slopes was the glitter of the outlets from the main ditch, where water spilled down at intervals. Below and parallel to the main ditch was the spread ditch, shaped shallow so that water poured over all its edges, sparkling like scattered diamonds in the sunlight. Farther down, below the spread ditch, furrows and laterals caught up the water again and spread it over the meadow. The whole system of irrigation fascinated Kelsey, and now another thought struck him. There was the way the cattle came onto the meadows in fall and were fed hay all winter; their manure fertilized the spring earth, bringing up new grass to become hay and feed them the next winter. “The wonderful economy of nature!” he exclaimed to himself.

      Whistling, he stopped by one of the outlets of the main ditch, where the flow of water was controlled by sod and rock. He got off the sodboat and went to examine the outlet, which seemed to be spilling too much water. After digging sod, he packed the sides to prevent washing. Then he bent over the stones that were in the mouth of the opening. He started shifting them, as he had seen Dalt do to hold back some of the water.

      His ear, always sensitive to sound, caught the change in the noise of the water; he moved a big rock, and it babbled forth in a different key. A smile came over his face and, forgetting his work, he began to play with the stones, arranging them this way and that, his head bent to catch the music. And suddenly, when a fine note struck his fancy, he burst out singing, tilting his red head back.

      “Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,

      How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?”

      He was back in Scotland. He was walking in the heather with Prim beside him and his arm about her, holding her so close they walked as one person. He closed his eyes and sang again, his heart reaching across the big valley, the mountains, and the far ocean, his singing saying the things he could never say in the letters he’d written at night by the feeble glow of the lantern.

      He played with the stones and sang until he felt light and mellow and at peace with the world. Then he went back to the barn, saddled a horse, and rode the ditch above the ranch house.

      It was suppertime when he got back. He noticed the gray team in the barn and the buggy standing outside the corral. He hurried toward the house, then paused by the watering trough, which was just outside the yard. He dipped his face deep in the trough, scrubbing the sweat from it with his hands. He dried himself carefully on a worn handkerchief. He didn’t want to look dirty when he met Monte Maguire. A man who owned three ranches and two thousand head of cattle was important, and Monte Maguire might be the key to his future.

      He pushed open the kitchen door, took an automatic step toward his place at the foot of the table, and then stopped and stood, staring at the stranger who occupied the place of honor at the head of the table. From a distance he heard Tommy’s voice. “Monte, this is my cousin Kelsey, from the old country. Thought maybe we could use him for the spring work.”

      The eyes looking at him so sharply were a cold sky-blue. The hair was smooth and blond and swept severely back from the tanned face with its high cheekbones and pointed chin. But the mouth was full and wide, and against the faded wool shirt the firm, swelling breasts were plainly outlined.

      “Sit down, young fella,” she said. Her voice was curt and husky.

      He was too stunned to speak. He fumbled for the backless chair, sank into it, unable to take his eyes from her as she got up and moved to the stove and poured herself another cup of coffee. He saw with shock that she wore men’s rough trousers; her hips strained against them. Below the knees her legs were wrapped with gunnysacks that extended down into the worn high-buckled overshoes. As she walked back to the table he was sharply aware of the bigness of her. And he thought, Only a tramp along the shore in the old country would wear such shabby clothes.

      “If you want any grub,” she said, looking at him with amusement in her eyes, “you better get it while it’s still there.”

      He reached automatically for a biscuit.

      “So you rode the ditch this afternoon, eh?” The amusement had gone from her eyes now, and the cold, probing look was in them again.

      How old was she—twenty-five, thirty-five? There was no way of knowing. And was it Miss or Mrs. Maguire?

      “Yes, sir—I mean, Miss—”

      “Madam,” she corrected and glanced around the table, the full mouth quirked in a smile. Long Dalton snickered.

      “Yes, madam.” He heard Tommy laughing softly now and looked at his cousin angrily.

      “And what did you see when you rode the ditch?”

      Kelsey’s hand paused midway between his plate and the platter of meat that oozed blood. “See?”

      “Why, yes.” Her voice was impatient. “Were there any holes in the ditch bank?”

      “I—uh—I didn’t see any.”

      “Then where did the water come out?” she asked dryly.

      The muffled sound of stifled laughter swept around the table. Kelsey’s face burned.

      “And was there any cattle along the ditch, young fella?”

      It annoyed him that she addressed him as “young fella.” Who did she think she was—his grandmother? “I didn’t notice any,” he answered.

      “See any cow tracks?”

      “Tracks—I didn’t look for cow tracks.”

      “Did you notice if the south slopes of the hills north of the ranch were greenin’ or still brown?”

      He swallowed and said nothing.

      “See any cow manure up there, young fella?”

      He shook his head, torn between humiliation and disgust. A woman, a woman talking about things like cow manure! It was—well, not proper at all. And he disliked Monte Maguire intensely. A big bold piece of brass, that’s what she was!

      She put down her fork and leaned forward. “Listen, young fella,” she said, “a cattleman’s life depends on noticin’ things. When you ride anywhere on a ranch you see everything. You gotta see if a ditch is runnin’ high or low, if the outlets are washed or plugged. You gotta look at cattle and see what shape they’re in—thin or fat or ailing. You gotta see fences—if they’re up or down or about to fall. And you always check the grass, notice if it’s greenin’ or still hung over from winter. Young fella, you gotta learn to keep your eyes open if you expect to work for me!”

      Kelsey sawed at the tough steak, his face smarting. The meat tasted like sawdust. Then he heard the curt, husky voice again. “I come in from the flats this afternoon. I seen three cows, two of ’em dry, up in that country you were supposed to be ridin’ over. By lookin’ across the upper meadow, I could tell by the shine of water the ditch was carryin’ a full head and the outlets filled. I seen green showin’ on the hills north of the ranch and lots of green under the spread ditch. Those three cows bound to have been along the ditch where it was greenest and left their tracks and their manure plain for anybody with eyes to see.”

      He felt miserable; he felt smaller than he’d ever felt in knee pants when the schoolmaster laid the strap to his hand. There was the sound of chairs being pushed back from the table, and then Monte Maguire said, “Jake, I seen lots of dry cows in the meadow.”

      Kelsey looked at the boss puncher. Jake fingered the black silk handkerchief at the throat of his clean wool shirt. Now Jake examined the nails of one hand.

      “That so, Monte? Didn’t figure there were any more drys than usual.”

      “Well, there are. What happened?”

      “Couldn’t