Silence. The Senator pursed his lips and twiddled his fingers. The care of a nation rested heavily upon his frail shoulders. Heavily but securely. He nodded once—twice. "A bill attached as a rider to some appropriation would do the trick. Yes. I shall see about that."
"I have always said the nation underestimated your worth," breathed Prague.
"But," went on the Senator, "you must have possession of the lands you wish title to. Can't evict squatters. Legal, perhaps, but dangerous. Cause a stink—that's the bald word for it. Must be entirely in your possession. Then no attention would be focussed on the rider. The less attention the better."
"I think we can adjudicate the matter of squatters," said Prague. "We shall."
"And then," pursued the Senator, "when you have title, I can perhaps speed up the government's desire to appropriate your lands for Indian reservation use. That will be another bill, later."
There it was, pat and perfect. And since perfection cannot be improved upon, the four of them drank silently and in comfortable understanding. The Senator retrieved his hat, the three partners scrambled to their feet. At the door the Senator swung. "Remember, you must settle with any squatters on that territory you wish. See that you are alone in possession. Then send me the boundary lines and I shall incorporate it into a rider."
Three studious bows. The Senator had one more word. "Caution, gentlemen. There are those who would tear me limb from limb. Ravenous beasts, sir. All this is legitimate, legal. But a reformer will torture the truth to any length. I detest reformers."
And though he named no names, each of the other three silently thought of Senator William Costaine, whose beagle nose scented fraud and corruption at a tremendous distance—especially if that fraud and corruption were in the opposite party.
The Senator whisked himself out of the chamber; the three gentlemen drank with that mellow spirit that comes of deeds well done. And then Randall drew paper and ink to him and began to write in a copper-plate hand those directions which Barron Grist, the resident foreman of the P.R.N., was later to receive, while about him hovered Prague, adding fodder to those directions from time to time. "Be sure to make it plain enough that he must settle with any squatters now on the land we want. Remove 'em. Make it plain."
"Plain, but legal," agreed Randall. "He will understand."
VIII. EAST COMES WEST
A month passed, the year turned its apex and swung down the farther side of its arc. The broiling heat of a forenoon's sun blasted the land; all things withered beneath it, all things were turned to a dun and henna colouring. The hardy pines were coated with a dust that hid their natural greenery, and they appeared to suffer a suspension of life. Fog stretched across the horizon, the surface of the river was like glowing brass. Tom Gillette, from his vantage point a half mile removed, saw the new Circle G cabins shimmering and rising with the heat mirage. He turned to Lispenard.
"Nevertheless, Blondy, it's a fertile land, and we've got our footing. Let winter come. Let anything come. We can fight."
Lispenard shrugged his shoulders. He was clean shaven once more, and he had let his yellow hair grow until it fell below his hat brim, plainsman's style. "Winter? It's a devil of a time to be thinking of winter, my lad. And why should you be so cursed proud of a few clap-daubed huts?"
"It means..." began Tom, and then caught the words before they ran past his lips. After all, Lispenard wouldn't understand how much those few cabins and corrals meant in a raw country. Achievement—security—the onward march of a dream. So he murmured, "It means shelter," and let it go at that. He wondered of late why it was the man seemed to arouse in him a defensive mood. It appeared that his friend had shaken himself into a certain state of mind, a kind of taciturn aloofness and a veiled antagonism that couldn't be penetrated. The old smile and jest had returned to the Blond Giant, but there was no charity in either. He had quite distinctly hardened; and he had grown secretive.
Tom turned about. "I'm going to town. Coming along?"
"No. I want to explore the north side of the river," said Lispenard. And he grinned. "But give my regards to the prairie beauty, old man. Ah, touched! Of course I know you'll see her along the way. I could even tell you where she makes her stand. Don't you suppose I have ridden over there myself on occasion? She's a spitfire—but the time will come when she'll see me in a better light."
Tom returned the man's smile with a sharp glance, wondering at the flare of anger he felt. "Still the lady's man, Blondy?"
"It's a weakness," replied his companion. "Give her my regards and say to her that there are other desirable types of men in addition to the rockbound and frowning creature tramping across the footlights."
"What's the nubbin to that, Blondy?"
The Blond Giant raised his shoulders again and spurred off. Much later, when Tom had gone eastward, he swung to see the man outlined on the bluff north of the river a moment, then dip from view.
"What draws him over there so much?" The question stuck to his mind for several miles and then vanished before a kind of expectancy. Halfway to the Wyatt range he saw Lorena—Lorena loosely poised on her horse and watching him approach. Her hand swung upward, and of a sudden her pony sprang to life and raced across the prairie, the girl's compact body weaving from side to side. Without ceremony she wheeled alongside—and thus they rode for a good half mile, saying not a word. Neither of these people made conversation to order, neither of them seemed to feel the necessity of it. Presently she waved her arm around the compass points.
"Guess my dad's fixing to sell out."
"To Grist and the P.R.N.?"
"How did you know?" she demanded.
"He's been after me," replied Tom. "Seems to want this country pretty bad."
"Then that's why both Eapley and Diggerts have sold. And I guess we will too." She struck her gauntlet against the saddle, crying, "I don't want to leave—I don't want to!" With that same disconcerting swiftness she faced him. "Are you going to sell?"
Gillette shook his head. "No, I guess not. Where would I go? This is my land now. I'm stickin' to it."
"It's the way I feel," she explained wistfully. "But Grist offered Dad a lot of money—and where does he think to make a profit?—so I think Dad will take it. No idea just where we will go next. I don't want to leave."
"Corporation money," said Tom, "is cautious money. It may seem as if they are paying a fancy price, but don't you doubt they'll get it back twice over."
They came to the lower ford, across which lay the road to Nelson. The girl studied the sandy earth for a long interval, then swept Tom's face with a quick and shrewd glance. "I don't want to go. I won't. If Dad leaves here I'll go to Nelson and work in the restaurant."
"I'd hate to think of you doing that," protested Tom.
There was another short silence, in which Tom silently applauded. The girl in the East would have made a marvelous play of his sentiment. She would have coquetted with him, would have softly asked, "Would it make any difference to you, Tom, what I did?" But not Lorena Wyatt. This clear-featured girl—whose eyes now and then so arrested and troubled him—had nothing of the coquette about her.
She spread her hands apart; the white V of her throat slid beneath the bandana's knot. "I'm strong. I'm not afraid. What harm would there be? Oh, I know what you think. You've got all those queer ideas as to what a lady shouldn't do. But, you see, I'm not..."