Following the Grass (11 page)

S
OME
there were who had smiled when Angel Irosabal had first sown wheat in Paradise Valley, but in those days water-rights were not so jealously guarded, and he had irrigated his fields to suit his pleasure. Martin Creek came tumbling out of the Santa Rosas on his range, and with much ado, especially in early spring, cut across his ranch to the Circle-Z line.

To help himself to its bounty was quite in keeping with the code of practice of those early days. It followed, therefore, that his wheat thrived. With passing years he had given more and more acreage to it, for he was shrewd enough to see that it was more profitable to send his flocks into the Reserve than to graze them on land which could be sown to crops.

Other men followed his lead. Water-rights became of vital importance, bringing a mass of litigation which still clogs the courts of Nevada. Wheat became an item of importance in the life of the Valley and, with the thriftiness of the Basque, Angel had built a mill in which to grind the golden harvest. At best, it was a crude affair which the valley soon outgrew, but the old Basque did not hurry to replace it with a larger and better. mill, for it was like him to have his investment guaranteed before making it.

A new mill would need more water. To make the mill profitable, the valley must produce a larger crop, and only more water could make that possible. And from where was this water to come? Martin Creek was the one unfailing source of supply, and from the Santa Rosas to the Little Humboldt every man with a water-right was either using or selling the maximum number of inches allowed him by law. So Angel saw his mill standing idle if in the future some other crop should prove more profitable, for it would claim part of the water now being used in the irrigation of wheat.

Not only to guard against this, but to make some alliance that would guarantee him an even larger sowing, became his chief concern and for three months he had pursued it. Next to himself, the Circle-Z claimed the greatest number of inches. Taylor had leased his water rights in Martin Creek to Paradise ranchers, depending on the North Fork for his own supply.

And now a strange thing happened, for although it was popularly supposed that Thad Taylor would have nothing to do with a sheepman, and a Basque in particular, he and Angel pooled their interests in Martin Creek. For although Thad's hatred of the Basque was long-lived, it in no way matched his love of the dollar, and it seemed certain that the arrangement he had made with Angel would line his pockets. That the thing they proposed doing was unfair, and less than honorable, mattered not at all to either.

The men who had been leasing Thad's water were dependent on it. Whatever value was placed on their ranches was contingent on their being able to renew their leases. A ranch without water is about as worthless a thing as Nevada can boast.

Thad and Angel were well aware of this, and it was their intention to buy in these properties at their own figure, to put what they could of them to wheat and to divide the profits. It was this very business which had taken Angel to the Circle-Z this day, and as Joseph with the wounded lamb in his arms started back to Thad Taylor's ranch-house, Angel and Thad lingered over their supper.

Little Billy, in his day a round-up cook of some renown and now Thad's chef and man-at-arms in general, was bent on clearing the table. He slipped in whenever it seemed propitious and retrieved a dish or platter. Thad soon discouraged him, however, for he was an autocratic, over-bearing old man steeped in having his own way.

With more tact it is true, the old rancher had dismissed his granddaughter, for of all the creatures who trod the earth, Thad Taylor loved and feared none as he did Necia. Moreover, he knew that the business he was discussing with Angel would not pass muster in her eyes.

When they had finished their scheming, Thad called her in. She was beautiful in a spiritual sense, her young body—she was only twenty—without hint of voluptuousness. As she stood in the doorway, her head lightly poised, it seemed incredible that the day would ever come when the purely physical loveliness of her would dim the ethereal beauty that was hers now. Angel glanced at her as if expecting some bird-like note to issue from her slightly parted lips.

Necia waited, however, for her grandfather to speak, and as he gathered up his papers, she glanced from him to Angel, appraising each in her own way, wondering what they had in common. The two men were of about the same age and shrewdness was written upon the face of each, but in no other way were they even remotely alike, for her grandfather was short, heavy—bald; his ruddy cheeks and rounded nose almost giving the lie to his severe, tight-lipped mouth. Angel was tall, cadaverous, angular, a great shock of iron-gray hair cascading over his high forehead.

Necia had heard him reviled many times, but in the four or five visits he had made to the Circle-Z she had found him courteous and patient. She had been raised, however, in a household where the Basque had been held no better than a Mexican—her mother, old Thad's daughter, had shared this view—and Necia found it difficult to overcome the prejudice.

Thad glanced at her apprehensively as he straightened up, for he had felt her scrutiny.

“Well, well, Necia,” he exclaimed brusquely, as was his habit when trying to cover up, “I can tell you a secret now: we're goin' to have a real flour-mill.”

Necia smiled. “Meaning that some one has lost his water rights, eh?” she queried provokingly.

“Never you mind about that,” Thad grinned. “Business is business. I'm no organized charity. Go on and play those new records for us, will you?”

Necia shook her head as she glanced at the wax rolls—in that day quite the last word in talking-machine records.

“They are
terrible
, grandfather,” she said teasingly. “—‘The Bull Frog and the Coon'—‘Flanigan's Wake'—” Necia made a wry face as she read the labels aloud.

“Terrible?” Thad snorted. “ ‘Flanigan's Wake?' Why, when I was a young buck they wa'n't no better tune a-goin' than that! But that's young-folks for you!” he went on vehemently, pretending an anger he was far from feeling. “Old-time things ain't good enough for them no more.”

“Maybe, that is best, eh
señor?”
Angel argued.

This was unexpected. Thad whirled on him in fine dudgeon.

“You a-goin' to take sides ag'in me, too?” he gasped. “Necia don't need no help. She bosses me to death now. I tell you, young-folks has got too much imagination. They've got things all figured out in advance. Makes me feel obsolete.”

“Oh, poor grandfather,” Necia said mockingly as she perched herself upon the arm of his chair.

“See?” Thad protested. “The tyranny of the female—it's awful. You can't make them take you seriously. If you don't agree with them, they laugh at you. Why, for three weeks she's been tryin' to make believe there's a ragged, half starved, no good—”

“I did not say he was a no-good,” Necia objected.

“No, you didn't. But if there was such a person, what else could he be—hidin' out on a mountain, goin' around without shoes, hair down his back—playin' around with a handful of crippled sheep that he's picked up, God knows where! Bah ! Do you think I'm mad?”

“Oh, so you've heard those tales, too,
señor?”
Angel inquired.

“Hain't heard nothin' else!” Thad exclaimed. “My boys don't talk about anythin' else. They say he's got a coyote herdin' his flock! D'you ever hear anythin' so downright foolish? Grown-up men ought to know better. If they're out at night and a coyote shuts up all of a sudden or a bob-cat quits his squawlin', they nudge each other and mutter, ‘Joseph!' It makes me sick.”

“And the crow, grandfather,” Necia said tauntingly; “don't forget it.”

“That's beyond me, that crow stuff,” Thad declared helplessly. “I ain't even goin' to repeat that.”

Necia smiled, but Angel's eyes were mirthless.

“My friend,” he said after a moment's hesitation, “the tales you scoff at are true—even the crow.”

“What?” Thad brought his chair down with a thud. Angel nodded.

“They are true,” he repeated.

There was a convincing quality in the old Basque's voice. Thad knew he had heard the truth, and his mouth sagged as he stared speechlessly at the old Basque. Necia was less surprised, but her face grew sober as she and her grandfather waited for Angel to speak.

“He has been living on the mountain for months,” their visitor went on after some deliberation.

“Have you seen him?” Thad demanded.

“I have seen his fires at night. One of my young men has seen him.”

Thad whistled softly. ”So that is why your boys went around by way of the spring, eh?”

“That is why,
señor,”
Angel answered, somewhat disconcerted. “You know Peter Organ—he has talked with this man.”

“What did he have to say?”

Angel scowled and got up and reached for his hat. Suddenly turning and confronting Necia and her grandfather, he exclaimed excitedly:

“He threatens us with famine! He says our crops will fail, our herds die for want of water!
Mal rayo la parta!
(May an evil stroke of lightning smother him.) He says that the seven lean years are upon this valley as they were upon Egypt!”

Thad laughed loudly at this.

“The seven lean years, eh?” he queried sarcastically. “I guess you and me know that there's been lean years right along for those who look for them. Year in and year out we been here. We ain't done so bad. I reckon we'll git by. Lean years for lean heads! Quotin' the Bible to Peter, eh? I might a-known he was a religion-struck fool.”

“Well—do you condemn him for warning you?” Necia asked.

“Condemn
him?” Thad questioned. “Humph! What a fool?”

Angel was standing at the window, staring out into the soft night.

“But,
señor,”
he murmured without turning, “this is the last day of May. It has not rained this month.”

“Just a dry spring,” Thad retorted. “You don't mean to tell me you take any stock in this wild talk?”

“It's strange—strange,” Angel answered as much to himself as to Thad and Necia.

“Well, it's your land he's on,” said Thad. “I wouldn't stand no foolishness from him. I'd make him git. You—you ain't
afraid
of him?”

Angel shook his head slowly.

“Joseph,” he muttered only half aloud. “—Joseph! It spells power.
Jaincoa!
I hate that name.”

Thad nodded, and patted Necia's hand.

“So do I,” he said slowly. “I haven't forgotten. Why, I—I—” and as he paused to find a word he heard something scratching at the door. And as all three of them stared, the door opened and Slippy-foot stalked into the room.

Thad's eyes bulged. The coyote stopped and looked from one to the other of them. Angel, at the window, had thrown up his hand as if to ward off something evil, and he stood seemingly petri· fied, fear written upon his face. Even Necia trembled and drew back. Though no one of them had ever seen Slippy-foot before, the manner of her entrance chilled their blood.

A
COYOTE
Walking into a ranch-house! Only a rangeman can appreciate their surprise. Before they had recovered, the weird tap, tap, of something crossing the gravel outside the door reached their ears. The next instant, Grimm, black and sleek, strutted into the room with the mien of an archbishop.

Necia heard Angel gasp as he caught his breath. Her grandfather was having an equally hard time of it. Their apparent helplessness steadied rather than alarmed Necia, and she threw back her head and bravely faced Grimm and Slippy-foot.

Grimm blinked his great gold-rimmed eyes as he surveyed the room and its occupants, and the wisdom and shrewdness that shone in them seemed to mock the petty schemes and secrets of the men before him. Crossing to where Angel stood, he humped his wings and looking up at the Basque, he deliberately clacked his tongue, and the sound was not unlike a laugh. Angel winced, feeling that the great bird was peering into his very soul. Grimm continued to regard him solemnly for another three or four seconds. Turning, then, he hopped upon the table.

A bread crust caught his wandering gaze, and tearing it into bits, he ate it with relish; but, even as he ate, his eyes roamed continually from Angel to Thad. He had been in the room fully a minute, and in that time no one had spoken. Necia could not but wonder why he never glanced at her, and she could not repress a start when, without warning, he raised his wings and hopped upon her shoulder. At that instant a voice called:

“Grimm!”

The crow cawed audaciously and sailed to the floor, and as he did so Joseph reached the doorway. For some minutes they had known he must come, and although Grimm and Slippy-foot had prepared them for his arrival, they could not take their eyes off him as he stood framed against the night, the wounded lamb in his arms. The lamp's mellow light glinted against his tanned cheeks and accentuated the luster of his eyes.

A majestic dignity rested upon him as he glanced at each of them in turn. Necia felt it. The serenity which cloaked him made light of his ragged clothes, and the girl, urged by an impulse she little understood, took a step toward him. She would have spoken had not her grandfather recovered his tongue and, brushing her aside, cried out angrily :

“State your business!”

Joseph's face retained its placidity. A moment before he had recognized Angel, and though his surprise had been great at finding him here, he had not betrayed it. He properly supposed that the man who addressed him was Thad Taylor and knowing him to be, by reputation, an irascible old man, it pleased Joseph to answer him at his own pleasure.

“I have come to you for help,” he said.

“Help?” Thad shouted. “Git that truck out of my house!” he raged, pointing to Slippy-foot and Grimm.

Joseph looked at Angel as if asking him if he concurred in this, and the expression on the old Basque's face well repaid the boy. Necia thought she saw his eyes smile as he motioned to the coyote.

“Go,” he murmured.

Slippy-foot hesitated for a moment and bared her fangs as she glared at Angel. Joseph lifted his hand then, and she slunk out.

“And you, Grimm,” he said to the crow.

Grimm clacked his tongue sarcastically and, swaying from side to side, pattered across the floor and was gone.

Thad's sigh was one of relief.

“What's the meanin' of this?” he cried, and his voice sounded natural once more. “What do you want me to do for you?”

"“For me—nothing. This lamb is suffering. I took it out of a trap a short while ago. Its leg is torn—it needs attention.”

“Don't bring no sheep to me,” Thad answered wrathfully, oblivious to Angel's presence. “I reckon that ain't the first lamb that's stepped into a trap.”

“No, unfortunately; but we know about this one. This poor, stricken thing—the most helpless of all God's creatures—can not ask you for aid. I do that. And you—will not—refuse me.”

“You ain't got nuthin' else to do but run around gathering up crippled sheep, eh?” Thad asked insolently. “I hear you got most of your flock that-a-way. why don't you take this one?”

“Because I believe it belongs to this man,” and Joseph pointed to Angel. “I found it in the long arroyo below your fence.”

Angel muttered something in Basque, but he did not offer to take the lamb. Joseph gazed at him and saw that he trembled as if palsied.

“What—what is your business?' Angel asked with some hesitation.

“I am a shepherd,” Joseph answered.

“Shepherd, eh?—a herder,” growled Thad.

“And your range?” Angel insisted.

“Wherever I find it.”

The Basque nodded to himself.

“Do you want work?” he asked.

Joseph shook his head. “I have my work,” he said slowly. “It is far from finished.”

“Seven years of it yet, eh?” Thad questioned scornfully. “Seven lean years!—Huh!”

“They will come to pass!” Joseph declared with some heat.

“You can't preach religion to me,” Thad shot back.

“I have no religion to preach,” Joseph asserted, “and if I seem to have, it is more than I intend. I ask only that men do unto me as I do unto them. And meanwhile, this lamb suffers.”

“I guess if you go around to the bunk-house some of the boys will fix you up,” Thad said by way of compromise. The coyote—the crow—the boy's quiet confidence—his unwavering eyes—had combined to put a bit of fear into Thad's heart.

Necia had taken no part in the conversation, and as her grandfather had stormed at Joseph she had retreated to the other side of the table. But her eyes had not left Joseph's face, and she came forward now on hearing him dismissed.

“Why, grandfather,” she said disapprovingly, and Thad raised his eyebrows inquiringly; “we cannot send this man out, looking for help from our men. I don't know of any one who would have troubled about the lamb. I—I think it was noble of him to bother with it. I want him to come in.”

For a moment Thad looked at her as if not comprehending what she had said. He was anxious to see Joseph gone.

“You orderin' me to do that?” he asked, his voice harsh.

“I ask it, grandfather,” Necia said simply. “This is your home, and we cannot serve it better than by proving that a stranger can find justice and gratefulness here.”

Thad nodded a grudging consent as Necia paused. Then facing Joseph, she said:

“Will you come in? I will take care of the lamb. I am Necia Dorr.”

It was Joseph's turn to fall back. His eyes widened as he gazed at her—so militant—so un-afraid. But his was not a feeling of fear. It was more a sense of reverential awe which swept over him and robbed him of the power to take his eyes away from her. So a humble peasant might have stood before Jeanne d'Arc.

Thad and Angel caught the look in the boy's eyes, and they glanced at each other furtively. As they stared at him, they saw Joseph's eyes cloud.

“Necia Dorr?” he muttered to himself.

Dorr—I Kit Dorr—Necia Dorr—the Circle-Z! Could he doubt but what this beautiful girl, with her tumbled blonde hair, was Kit Dorr's daughter? Why it should matter so much he did not know, but his throat went dry at the thought and with his senses fogged, he heard Necia say:

“If you will carry the lamb into the kitchen, I will dress its leg.”

Thad and Angel got up and watched him as he followed Necia out of the room. A curse escaped Thad's lips as he sank back into his chair. Angel still stood staring at the door through which Joseph had disappeared. He muttered something to himself and going to the table, he bent over and whispered in Thad's ear:

“Do you know who he is?”

Angel's voice was as cold as death and it and the look in his eyes made Thad pop erect as if he were a jack-in-the-box.

“Who?” he demanded.

Angel straightened up, his eyes holding Thad's.

“That,” he said at last, nodding toward the kitchen, “is Joe Gault's boy.”