The Complete Novels of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

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      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 foreman was very matter of fact about it. "Well, we've done it afore and we can do it again. Ain't we gettin' good wages?"

      Grist nodded and turned into the ford. "Here goes. Might as well start early."

      VII. THE NET DRAWS TIGHTER

       Table of Contents

      There met, in the city of Washington, one summer's night, three men whose names and fortunes stood behind the P.R.N. Land Company; to wit, Prague, Randall, and Noonan. The crystal chandelier sent down its refracted light upon the table by which they sat and across the centre of which was spread a map of the territory of Dakota. Description of these three is unnecessary; indeed, they would not have wanted to be described. For, in spite of the evident luxury of the quarters, the whisky glasses, and the tapering cigars they had ventured the sodden heat of the capital city on business of considerable import and great privacy. None of these three gentlemen had any illusions to speak of, for they dealt in a traffic that demanded quite questionable practices. And this very night they were about to consummate something just a little more questionable than that which had gone before. At this precise moment, while awaiting a caller with a distinguished title, they were casting over the ground to be covered. And like the amiable gentlemen that they were, no overt word, no incriminating phrase sullied the staid dignity of their presence.

      It was Prague, the florid and substantial and jovial Prague, who did most of the talking. And it was he whose index finger traced an imaginary boundary across a strip of western Dakota.

      "You see it, I trust. Dammee, you can see it? Look at all that land—and here we have been overlooking the greatest of our opportunities. It is the venture of a lifetime."

      "Entirely legitimate," chimed in Mr. Randall.

      "Oh, entirely—entirely," corroborated Prague with considerable haste. "At the same time, caution must be observed. You understand how these things are."

      They quite understood. Prague nipped the end from another cigar and chewed it with the relish that is born of expensive luxuries. "And it is for that reason, gentlemen, I have made contact with a—ah—er certain person who can materially aid us."

      "Legitimately," quoth Randall.

      "Indeed," said Prague. "There must be no smell or taint of illegality about the affair. You know how those things are. And this—er—person is in a position to render us that particular service which is utterly essential to the venture."

      "Ah," was Mr. Noonan's contribution.

      "Then," went on Prague, "we are quite agreed."

      And amid the nodded approval the door of the room opened and a gentleman slipped through, taking care to close the portal behind him. At once the three rose to their feet with the courtesy due so illustrious a figure.

      It was that gallant tribune, Senator Ignacius I. Invering, whose tones of patriotic devotion had more than once rung passionately through the land. They always rang passionately, these tones, and they were always patriotic. He was a herring- thin man, the colour of a pressed rose petal, and a stogy projected skyward from his lips. The stogy was unlighted, for the Senator had dedicated his health