The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox. Ernest Haycox

eyelid, turned away from the newcomer, fluttered at Tom. "Now, it's the same old politeness, Mister Grist. I was just tellin' this man he'd be havin' you for a neighbour. Might as well be gettin' acquainted. Mister Gillette—another Texan—will be facin' you at Sixty Mile Ford from now on until..."

      "Until what, you mysterious Irishman?" asked the newcomer, still amiable.

      But the surveyor shook his head. "I'd better be mindin' my own business. Sure. Mister Gillette, this gentleman's name is Barron Grist. He's resident agent—ain't it a fancy name for a foreman?—of the P.R.N. Land Company. It's the P.R.N. your eyes will get weary with lookin' at on the north side of the Little Mizzoo."

      Tom shook hands with Grist, the man offering him a limp grip. "You Texans certainly are swarming north this season, Here we were, a wild set in a wild land. And all of a sudden here comes the great migration. Oh, well, we couldn't expect to have it to ourselves forever. Who led you Texans out of Israel?"

      "I'm afraid I can't tell you," said Tom. "Our Southern prophets have none to sing their songs."

      "Singin', ha!" grunted the surveyor. "Little good singin' will do a livin' soul in this country."

      Grist laughed. "Don't let this purveyor of scandal influence you too much, Mr. Gillette. I bear a bad name in this country, and he'll tell you many things. But as a neighbour I wish you luck. If at any time I can help you..." Without finishing the sentence he nodded and backed out. The surveyor winked portentously.

      "Mark him well," said he. "Whether you want it or not, you'll have business with him. Oh, yes."

      "I didn't know land was valuable enough to speculate in," offered Tom.

      The surveyor passed him another knowing glance. "Land? Well, it ain't land the P.R.N. profits by. It's cattle. Eastern money back of it. They've got a beef contract with the gov'ment. Deliverin' all their stuff to the Indian agencies. The redskins have got to be fed now that we've licked 'em and corralled 'em on reservations."

      "Sounds profitable," mused Tom.

      "It's rotten with profit," broke in the surveyor with a trace of energy. "Now, you'll be thinkin' to try that scheme, eh? Forget it. Takes a pull to land a beef contract. No, it's cattle—not land. But they're hell on wheels to get all the range they can. I'm tellin' you. Beg, borrow, and steal. How they get title to all this unsurveyed stuff is beyon' me. But they do. An' moreover, 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