Guardians of the Sage (3 page)

Jim knew him well. He raised his hand and gave him the sign. “How,
Cola!”

Plenty Eagles drew himself up stiffly. “No! Long time I am knowing you. When you work for Henry Stall, many times I am come to your camp. Always you spread the robe for me and call me brother. I am trusting, you.
Aiee!”
He pulled down the corners of his mouth with withering contempt. “Your tongue is crooked! It says one thing and means another!”

Montana looked to Quantrell for the answer to all this.

“Don't pay any attention to him, Jim,” Quantrell said, trying to make light of the matter. “I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't listen. He thinks you are driving his people off the reservation.”

“My father old man; he not like leaving reservation,” Plenty Eagles exclaimed fiercely. “Squaw Valley good place, he say. Indians living there long time. Not go away. All the time be sad for these hills.”

Quantrell found a chair and sprawled all over it. “Did you ever hear anythin' sillier?” he laughed again.

His derision rubbed Montana the wrong way. They were not the cronies Quantrell liked to pretend they were, although of late he had been spending a lot of time in Jim's office.

“Nothing very funny about this to me,” Montana said coolly. “Plenty Eagles is right; it's a damned nasty business yanking his people out of Squaw Valley. When they consented to go there they were led to believe the valley would be theirs forever. Now some fathead in Washington has discovered the Government can save a few dollars by packing them off to Fort Hall.” He turned to the Indian. “You bet it's pretty tough, Plenty Eagles. You tell your father my heart bleeds for him. I love these hills, too.”

“Then why you make him go?”

“I not make him go,” Montana answered with great patience. “Letter comes; says Piutes go to Fort Hall; sell reservation. Men in Washington do this—not me.”

“Sure, Plenty Eagles! You got this all wrong,” Quantrell cut in, his face an emotionless mask even as he grinned, his teeth white against his swarthy skin. “Jim didn't have anything to do with it. When the soldiers come up from Fort McDermitt next month to move your folks, they'll go peaceful enough. They'll have to go; ain't nothing else for 'em to do. Better hitch up your team and pull out; you got a heavy load.”

Jim knew Plenty Eagles had not been listening to Quantrell. There was a puzzled look on the Indian's face.

“You put up plenty sign about sell reservation,” said he. “I show him to Quantrell. He say, ‘Take down those signs; Montana not have sale.' Me, I tear them up. Now you have sale anyhow.”

If Quantrell was surprised or annoyed by Plenty Eagles' admission that he had destroyed the legal notices of the sale, he gave no sign of it.

“Did you tell him that, Clay?” Jim asked, pushing back his chair as though to get to his feet. Quantrell waved him down.

“Don't be foolish!” he drawled. “He just got me wrong, that's all. I—happen to know they can send you to prison for tearing up them things.” He lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in the Indian's direction. “Plenty Eagles, I wouldn't go around repeating what you just said. It might get you into trouble.”

The baffled look deepened in the Piute's eyes. He sensed that there was a game here, but he couldn't understand it. Prison? He understood that perfectly. His face remained immobile and stern, but his shoulders sagged impotently; he had been tricked before. Without another word he shuffled out of the office and went down the stairs.

Quantrell smoked his cigarette unconcernedly. He knew Montana was regarding him thoughtfully. An impudent smile parted his lips. “Don't pretend you're surprised,” he purred. “You knew the signs were down. You did your duty; you put' em up. If they didn't stay up, you should worry. It served your purpose as well as mine.”

“Yeah?” Montana's blue eyes were cold and gray. “You're pretty sure I've got a purpose, eh?”

“I hope to tell you I am!” Quantrell began to lose some of the nonchalance he liked to affect as Montana continued to regard him. “I got your play right off. You want to freeze old Slick-ear out of Squaw Valley.” Quantrell permitted himself another smile. “Feeling the same way about it, I began to sit up nights, figuring out ways to help you.”

“When I need help I usually know how to ask for it.” Jim's tone was definitely hostile. “Why are you so interested ?”

“That's a fair question,” Quantrell replied bluntly. “I'll give you a fair answer. Half of my business has been freighting Government issues to the agency in Squaw Valley. That's all over now. But if you can't make a living one way, you got to do it another. God knows that ranch of mine will never put a dollar in my pocket as it stands. My only out is to buy in some of this reservation bottom land, so I'll have hay and water and make it a going concern. I'm chucking the freighting business.”

“Oh . . .”

“I guess you know now why I don't want Henry Stall poking his nose into Squaw Valley and gobbling up the whole damn works.” Quantrell hitched his chair nearer to the desk and leaned forward confidentially. “Seeing the conversation has taken this turn, Jim,” he ran on, “reminds me of something. Section number seven—just above the forks—is what I got my eye on. You can—fix things so I'll get it, can't you?”

The silence that followed grew oppressive. Quantrell began to fidget as Jim's eyes burned into his.

“Clay—I ought to kick you out of here for that,” he said at last. “You talk as though you had something on me. If you have—shoot! I'm not fixing anything for anybody.”

“Of course not!” Quantrell knew he had over-stepped himself. “All I meant was—if you can give me a break, why—I'll appreciate it.”

“Well, you want to say what you mean with me,” Montana flung back. He pulled himself erect and walked over to the window and gazed up and down the street. Plenty Eagles was pulling out of town with his twelve-mule team.

Only the droning of the flies, sailing in and out of the unscreened window, and the ticking of the clock on the wall broke the silence as Quantrell rolled another cigarette. As he moistened the paper with his tongue, he raised his eyes to flash a glance of hatred at Montana's back. “I'll square that some day,” he promised himself.

Jim's eyes had strayed to the road that led into town from the southwest. Quantrell saw him stiffen. He failed to surmise the reason.

“Well, only a few minutes now and you can get started,” he drawled. “All the interested parties are present.”

“Yes—thanks to you!” Jim whipped out.

Quantrell caught the challenge in his voice. “What do you mean?” he demanded as Jim whirled on him.

“Judd Case was in here yesterday morning. Said you'd been talking to him.”

Quantrell flushed. “No use denying it,” he got out awkwardly. “Just razzing him a little. It was too late to do any harm.”

“I might have known it,” Montana ground out furiously. “You had to play the tin-horn, didn't you?”

“Say,
muchacho
, I don't intend to eat all the dust you kick up!” Quantrell towered above Montana as they faced each other, his mouth cruel and reckless.

“Take a look out the window,” Jim muttered.

A dozen men were riding into town. They were armed—alert and unfriendly. Quantrell let a grunt of dismay escape him.

“You know them?” Montana rasped unpleasantly.

“Reb Russell and the Bar S bunch from Furnace Creek!” The big fellow's voice trailed away to a smothered whisper.

“Look the other way—beyond the tracks. See anything ?”

“My God!” was Quantrell's answering exclamation.

“Yeah! Too late to do any harm, eh? You ought to grow up, Quantrell. This'll be the old man himself and his South Fork outfit. They're not here by accident.”

Downstairs the hum of conversation fell away to an excited whisper. The sober faces of the men who had been waiting about the court-house grew graver as they recognized Reb and his men. They drew together, silent and tight of lip. Suddenly the very air had become charged with a breathless tension.

Quantrell's air of confidence had vanished when he turned away from the window, “It's a show-down now,” he got out. “Are you going through with your play?”

“I haven't any play left,” Montana answered stonily. “A tin-horn kicked my hand into the discard.”

Quantrell reared up defiantly, his face white with rage.

“Get going!” Montana warned. “When that crowd downstairs learns the right of this they'll be looking for you with a rope!”

B
ACK in the beginning, when the rape of the West began, the universal intention of cattleman and miner had been to rip out a fortune in a hurry. Nobody was concerned about the land or its future. That was still the thought when Henry Stall, a German butcher-boy, come to California to make his fortune, first set foot in San Francisco.

Frugal and industrious, he proved an apt pupil. Fifteen years later, men were calling him the cattle-king as he journeyed up and down the San Joaquin, his note-book in his pocket. It was his own domain; his by right of conquest.

“On March 16th, and again a week later, seated in a rowboat, we travelled back and forth across the area herein described,” two of his men made sworn affidavit to the U. S. Land Office in an action looking toward the acquiring of still more land. The two men were in the rowboat, as they testified; but they failed to state that the rowboat had been lashed to a wagon and that a team of horses had drawn them over the land in question. It was typical of Henry Stall.

With his chain-store mind and mania for expansion, it was inevitable that he should invade Nevada and later, Oregon. In this semi-desert country there was an abundance of range, but precious little water. Immediately, he began to prospect for it, filing on every creek and spring he found unused, making them his own by the simple expedient of proving his priority and a real or fancied use of the waters in question. Once established, those rights were his forever, and he foresaw that through them he would dominate this country sooner or later even as he did the San Joaquin.

That thought had been in his mind the August day he first rode into Squaw Valley. Other than the reservation, it was all uninhabited public domain, open to entry. With dummy entrymen he could have homesteaded most of it, or bought it in for the proverbial song. He was not minded to do either, for without the reservation there was not enough good range in sight to interest him. It satisfied him to buy a few scattered acres and establish what water rights he could.

In the twelve years that had intervened, one small outfit after another had moved into the valley, using water that he considered his. He made no protest, willing to bide his time until such a day as this arrived. He knew the passing years had not outlawed his rights—not with the legal talent he could send to the firing line. Those old water rights were an ace in the hole now.

If he rode into Wild Horse outwardly his usual phlegmatic self, he was aware of the hostile glances levelled at him. It was no more than he expected. In the crowd he recognized Dan Crockett, Joe Gault and one or two others.

“I don't want to be hard on these Squaw Valley men,” he said to himself. “If I get the reservation, I'll buy them out at a fair price.” His idea of a fair price, of course. “But they can't expect to use my water if they band together and try to freeze me out.”

He rode ahead with Letty and Judd. A dozen South Fork men followed close behind.

“Reb's here already,” Judd informed him as they neared the court-house. “Over there in front of the sheriff's office.”

“So I see.” The old man glanced at his watch. It was five minutes to twelve. “I'm going up and talk to Montana before the sale starts. You tell Mr. Russell I don't want any trouble if it can be avoided.

Letty sighed wearily as she slipped from her saddle. The long, gruelling ride had told on her more than on her father.

“You better stay here with Mr. Case,” he advised.

“No, I'll go up with you,” she insisted. “It won't look so warlike if I go along.”

Montana expected the old man to come up. He was surprised to find Letty with him. It was the first time he had seen her in more than a year—a period in which he had tried unsuccessfully to keep memory of her out of his thoughts.

His belated “Good-morning,” won no response from old Henry. Letty nodded, her manner cool and aloof and in marked contrast to the warm friendliness of the days when he had been a Bar S man.

It hurt; but he told himself he could expect nothing else under the circumstances. She refused the chair he offered her.

“I thought you were going to keep me posted about this matter,” old Slick-ear queried without preamble of any sort.

“I changed my mind about that, Mr. Stall,” Montana answered with equal bluntness. “I don't mind telling you I am sorry to see you here.”

That was direct enough. The old man drew down his shaggy eyebrows.

“Your gratitude for the good wages I paid you for three years, eh?”

“You may not believe it, but gratitude had something to do with it—though I aim to be worthy of my hire. I never heard anyone accuse you of overpaying a man.”

It was a pertinent shot. Letty had difficulty keeping a twinkle out of her eyes as she saw her father's head go up indignantly.

“You are entitled to your opinion,” he exclaimed sharply. “But you haven't any right to discriminate against me.”

“Neither against nor for you,” Montana supplemented.

It nettled the old man to be rebuffed so completely.

“I didn't come here to bandy words with you! The facts speak for themselves. When a man goes to all the bother you have about something that doesn't concern him, I begin to wonder what he's getting out of it.”