Andy’s business with the man consisted solely in mixing cigarette smoke with cigar smoke and of helping to stare moodily out of the window. Words there were none, save when Andy was proffered a match and muttered his thanks. The silent session lasted for half an hour. Then the man got up and went out, and the breath of Andy Green paused behind his nostrils until he saw that the man went only to the first section in the car and settled there behind a spread newspaper, invisible to Florence Grace Hallman unless she searched the car and peered over the top of the paper to see who was behind.
After that Andy Green continued to stare out of the window, seeing nothing of the scenery but the flicker of telegraph posts before his eyes that were visioning the future.
The Flying U ranch hemmed in by homesteaders from the East, he saw; homesteaders who were being urged to bring all the stock they could, and turn it loose upon the shrinking range. Homesteaders who would fence the country into squares, and tear up the grass and sow grain that might never bear a harvest. Homesteaders who would inevitably grow poorer upon the land that would suck their strength and all their little savings and turn them loose finally to forage a living where they might. Homesteaders who would ruin the land that ruined them.… It was not a pleasing picture, but it was more pleasing than the picture he saw of the Flying U after these human grass hoppers had settled there.
The range that fed the Flying U stock would feed no more and hide their ribs at shipping time. That he knew too well. Old J. G. Whitmore and Chip would have to sell out. And that was like death; indeed, it is death of a sort, when one of the old outfits is wiped out of existence. It had happened before—happened too often to make pleasant memories for Andy Green, who could name outfit after outfit that had been forced out of business by the settling of the range land; who could name dozens of cattle brands once seen upon the range, and never glimpsed now from spring roundup until fall.
Must the Flying U brand disappear also? The good old Flying U, for whose existence the Old Man had fought and schemed since first was raised the cry that the old range was passing? The Flying U that had become a part of his life? Andy let his cigarette grow cold; he roused only to swear at the porter who entered with dust cloth and a deprecating grin.
After that, Andy thought of Florence Grace Hallman—and his eyes were not particularly sentimental. There was a hard line about his mouth also; though Florence Grace Hallman was but a pawn in the game, after all, and not personally guilty of half the deliberate crimes Andy laid upon her dimpled shoulders. With her it was pure, cold-blooded business, this luring of the land-hungry to a land whose fertility was at best problematical; who would, for a price, turn loose the victims of her greed to devastate what little grazing ground was left.
The train neared Havre. Andy roused himself, rang for the porter and sent him after his suitcase and coat. Then he sauntered down the aisle, stopped beside Florence Grace Hallman and smiled down at her with a gleam behind the clear candor of his eyes.
“Hard luck, lady,” he murmured, leaning toward her. “I’m just simply loaded to the guards with responsibilities, and here’s where I get off. But I’m sure glad I met yuh, and I’ll certainly think day and night about you and—all you told me about. I’d like to get in on this land deal. Fact is, I’m going to make it my business to get in on it. Maybe my way of working won’t suit you—but I’ll sure work hard for any boss and do the best I know how.”
“I think that will suit me,” Miss Hallman assured him, and smiled unsuspectingly up into his eyes, which she thought she could read so easily. “When shall I see you again? Could you come to Great Falls in the next ten days? I shall be stopping at the Park. Or if you will leave me your address—”
“No use. I’ll be on the move and a letter wouldn’t get me. I’ll see yuh later, anyway. I’m bound to. And when I do, we’ll get down to cases. Good bye.”
He was turning away when Miss Hallman put out a soft, jewelled hand. She thought it was diffidence that made Andy Green hesitate perceptibly before he took it. She thought it was simply a masculine shyness and confusion that made him clasp her fingers loosely and let them go on the instant. She did not see him rub his palm down the leg of his dark gray trousers as he walked down the aisle, and if she had she would not have seen any significance in the movement.
Andy Green did that again before he stepped off the train. For he felt that he had shaken hands with a traitor to himself and his outfit, and it went against the grain. That the traitor was a woman, and a charming woman at that, only intensified his resentment against her. A man can fight a man and keep his self respect; but a man does mortally dread being forced into a position where he must fight a woman.
CHAPTER 3
THE KID LEARNS SOME THINGS ABOUT HORSES
The Kid—Chip’s Kid and the Little Doctor’s—was six years old and big for his age. Also he was a member in good standing of the Happy Family and he insisted upon being called Buck outside the house; within it the Little Doctor insisted even more strongly that he answer to the many endearing names she had invented for him, and to the more formal one of Claude, which really belonged to Daddy Chip.
Being six years old and big for his age, and being called Buck by his friends, the Happy Family, the Kid decided that he should have a man’s-sized horse of his own, to feed and water and ride and proudly call his “string.” Having settled that important point, he began to cast about him for a horse worthy his love and ownership, and speedily he decided that matter also.
Therefore, he ran bareheaded up to the blacksmith shop where Daddy Chip was hammering tunefully upon the anvil, and delivered his ultimatum from the door way.
“Silver’s going to be my string, Daddy Chip, and I’m going to feed him myself and ride him myself and nobody else can touch him ’thout I say they can.”
“Yes?” Chip squinted along a dully-glowing iron bar, laid it back upon the anvil and gave it another whack upon the side that still bulged a little.
“Yes, and I’m going to saddle him myself and everything. And I want you to get me some jingling silver spurs like Mig has got, with chains that hang away down and rattle when you walk.” The Kid lifted one small foot and laid a grimy finger in front of his heel by way of illustration.
“Yes?” Chip’s eyes twinkled briefly and immediately became intent upon his work.
“Yes, and Doctor Dell has got to let me sleep in the bunk-house with the rest of the fellers. And I ain’t going to wear a nightie once more! I don’t have to, do I, Daddy Chip? Not with lace on it. Happy Jack says I’m a girl long as I wear lace nighties, and I ain’t a girl. Am I, Daddy Chip?”
“I should say not!” Chip testified emphatically, and carried the iron bar to the forge for further heating.
“I’m going on roundup too, tomorrow afternoon.” The Kid’s conception of time was extremely sketchy and had no connection whatever with the calendar. “I’m going to keep Silver in the little corral and let him sleep in the box stall where his leg got well that time he broke it. I ’member when he had a rag tied on it and teased for sugar. And the Countess has got to quit a kickin’ every time I need sugar for my string. Ain’t she, Daddy Chip? She’s got to let us men alone or there’ll be something doing!”
“I’d tell a man,” said Chip inattentively, only half hearing the war-like declaration of his offspring—as is the way with busy fathers.
“I’m going to take a ride now on Silver. I guess I’ll ride in to Dry Lake and get the mail—and I’m ’pletely outa the makings, too.”
“Uh-hunh—a—what’s that? You keep off Silver. He’ll kick the daylights out of you, Kid. Where’s your hat? Didn’t your mother tell you she’d tie a sunbonnet on you if you didn’t keep your hat on? You better hike back and