Fight for Powder Valley! (8 page)

6

Ross Culver met the covered wagon a mile north of Dutch Springs. Ross was driving a buckboard back to town, and he pulled aside on the dusty road, watching the swaying approach of the cumbersome wagon with narrowed eyes.

There was a stubble of beard on the engineer's cheeks, and his face was thinner than it had been a month previously. His eyes had taken on a look of hard wariness and his face and hands no longer carried the blisters of a tenderfoot. He had left off the black tie that added a touch of professional dignity to his attire, and wore his khaki shirt with sleeves rolled above the elbows and open at the throat. The shirt itself was sweat-stained, and his leather boots had lost all vestige of the polish they had worn into Powder Valley.

It had been a month of strain and of hard work for the Eastern engineer. He didn't mind the hard work. There was satisfaction in tackling a tough job with his two hands and his brain, but the bleak animosity of the valley ranchers was difficult for Culver to accept and endure. He and his men were as wholly ostracized as though they were lepers. There had been no more overt trouble since Sheriff Grimes deputized them and the threat of martial law was spread over the valley, but the caldron of hatred simmered ominously beneath the calm, and Culver was painfully conscious that any small incident might set off an explosion that would rock the placid valley from end to end.

He knew this was the first definite showdown, as he waited for the Hartsells' wagon to reach him. From Company headquarters in Denver, he had been informed that several parcels of land had been sold and the first eager settlers could be expected to dribble in soon. In vain Ross Culver had protested against this policy to President Biloff and his board of directors. It was far too early to start bringing in settlers, the engineer had pointed out. The short growing season of summer was more than half over, and work had scarcely begun on the dam and irrigation ditches. Even if there happened to be sufficient rainfall to raise crops without irrigation this first year, the frost was bound to come before anything could be harvested.

In Culver's mind, it was courting disaster to bring farmers in before the land was ready to receive them. He argued that it would inevitably bring the whole project into disrepute if the first few families were unable to make a go of it and were forced to give up and move out before the contemplated irrigation system was ready for operation.

But his protests to headquarters had been unavailing. He had been reminded that he was the engineer, not the policymaker for the company; that it was his job to go ahead with the actual development work and not worry about the eventual success or failure of the project.

This attitude of the higher-ups in Denver had served to implant a tiny seed of doubt in Ross Culver's mind; a seed which stubbornly took root despite his efforts to rid himself of it. Perhaps the ranchers were right, and Jud Biloff didn't actually care whether the project was a success or not—just so he and his associates were able to sell the land for a huge profit to themselves.

Culver didn't want to think that about his employers. He refused to let his thoughts dwell on that ugly possibility. For he was a conscientious man, and he could never bring himself to lend his name and his efforts to such a barefaced piece of trickery. It would be downright dishonest to lure settlers into the valley merely to get their money for land which might prove to be utterly worthless to them. He
had
to make himself believe in the project in order to continue as engineer in charge. And the job was important to him in that it was his first real opportunity to distinguish himself in his profession; his first responsible position in complete charge of a project of this importance.

Thus, he found himself working a sort of self-hypnotism on his faculties which had the effect of blinding his mind to the hard realities in order to retain a measure of self-respect.

The inward battle that he had been fighting this past month was reflected in a certain haggardness of his features. An habitual frown of irritation had replaced his customary smile of good humor and his speech had taken on a new curtness and force.

He leaned out of the buckboard and held up one hand as the prairie schooner came abreast of him, keenly studying the faces of Joe and Molly Hartsell with Baby-Doll between them on the front seat.

Culver felt instant pity, and then a strong tide of resentment against Biloff and his associates. The Hartsells were exactly the type he had hoped would not come this first summer. The determined look of cheerfulness on their faces as they returned his greeting did not fool him at all. He knew, instinctively, that they were buoyed up by false hopes, promises of a Paradise that awaited them instead of this grim land that would take a lot of subduing before it gave forth the crops they needed.

But they were here now, and there was nothing for it except to make the best of the situation. He hated himself for the false note of cheerfulness he put in
his
voice as he said:

“I'm the engineer in charge of the Colorado Western Land and Development Company's property here. I have an idea you folks are looking for me.”

“Well now, I reckon maybe we are at that.” Joe Hartsell leaned forward to peer at the man in the buckboard. “Like for somebody to show us where's the piece of land we bought. My name's Hartsell,” he added. “Joe Hartsell from Kansas.”

Culver leaped down and approached the wagon, holding out his hand. “My name is Culver. Glad to meet you, Mr. Hartsell. And”—he lifted his stiff felt hat—“Mrs. Hartsell.”

Joe Hartsell gripped the engineer's hand, and Molly nodded to him. Baby-Doll sucked on her thumb and regarded him with wide inquisitive eyes. Joe said, “If you could show us which is section three; the southeast quarter …”

“It's all surveyed and marked out for you. I believe your property is a hundred acres, lying right along the creek …”

Joe Hartsell nodded. There was a hungry look in his eyes. “I'm looking for it to be good land. The man sold it, promised me …”

“It's fine land,” Culver assured him heartily. “The pick of the entire project. As soon as we get our irrigation canals in …”

“You mean it ain't irrigated yet?”

“Well … not yet,” Culver replied, uncomfortably conscious of the direct gaze from Molly's eyes that was almost accusatory. “We can't do everything at once,” he stumbled on. “You must understand how it is with a new development. Dams and irrigation ditches take time.”

“And what are folks like us going to do while you're getting around to building them?” demanded Molly.

“Oh, there'll be plenty to do. You'll want to build a house … get your land cleared and ready for cultivation. It's all virgin territory, you know. Never had a plow put to it.”

Joe Hartsell cleared his throat. “Folks hereabout don't seem to cotton to the idea,” he muttered. “Back yonder in town … they acted like settlers wasn't wanted.”

Ross Culver laughed, but there was a savage intonation of anger that belied his attempted lightness of tone. “You know how these Western ranchers are. Dead set in their ways. They don't understand the meaning of progress. They'll come around … once they see what it means to the country to have a development like this in their midst.”

The Hartsells looked dubious, and Joe explained, “They didn't want to sell us groceries at the store. Said my money wasn't any good for buying things.”

Ross Culver's eyes flashed angrily. He exclaimed, “So, that's what they've had up their sleeves? I've wondered why they were sitting back and taking things so tamely. Well, it won't work.” He struck his fist resoundingly into an open palm. “I'll open up a company store here on our own land … freight stuff in from Pueblo if need be. If you'll give me a list of things you need at once, I'll see that you get them as soon as you're located on your land.”

Joe shook his head. “We're fixed all right for a little time. There was a lady in the store that bought the things Molly needed with her own money, and let Molly pay her for them. I wonder could we go on to our own place before it gets dark, Mister?”

“Of course. It's less than a mile ahead. Follow me and I'll show you.” Culver went back to his buckboard, wheeled his team into the road ahead of the prairie schooner and held them down to a slow pace to accommodate the Kansan's tired horses.

The sun was dipping down toward the jagged peaks westward and the soft haze of early evening lay upon the wide fertile valley. The grass was rich and green on each side of the road, rising knee-high more than a mile westward where the line of willows marked the twisting course of Powder Creek. A covey of quail ran excitedly down the road in front of the buckboard as Culver turned off from the main road toward a gate in the new fence of tightly strung barbed wire that marked the western boundary of the company's land. They rose into low flight with a whir of wings when their short legs failed to outdistance the buckboard, and the loud roar of a twelve-gauge shotgun shattered the evening silence from behind Culver. Four of the birds fluttered down into the grass, either wounded or killed by the single shot, and Culver glanced back to see Joe Hartsell standing erect in the lurching wagon with a long-barreled shotgun at his shoulder.

At the same time a barefooted boy and girl erupted gleefully from the back of the wagon and ran through the long grass to retrieve the stricken birds. They came hurrying back to the wagon, holding their prizes aloft, as it stopped behind the buckboard when Culver pulled up in front of the heavily padlocked gate.

The engineer got out and hesitated, then walked heavily back to the wagon, shaking his head.

Hartsell greeted him with a broad grin. “I guess maybe we won't starve … not if there's plenty of wild game for a man to shoot.”

Culver stopped beside the wagon and tipped his hat back to show a disturbed countenance. “It was lucky none of the ranchers were near enough to hear the shot. You've got to remember you're on their property until you drive through this gate.”

Hartsell rubbed his lean chin and looked bewildered. “Those are wild quail, ain't they?”

“They're wild, but the ranchers are funny about shooting them this time of the year. They're not full-grown yet,” he explained as kindly as he could. “It's not considered sporting here to hunt them until fall.”

Joe Hartsell continued to look bewildered. “I'm not studying about sport … I'm thinking about fresh meat for my young-uns.”

Culver nodded curtly. “I understand … but the ranchers won't want to understand. Confine your hunting to company property and they won't have anything to say about it.” He swung on his heel and went to unlock the heavy padlock on the gate, led his team through and waited until Hartsell drove through, then relocked it.

“You take this key,” he told Hartsell, passing the wagon, “and keep the gate locked at all times. Then no one can get in without cutting the fence, and … they haven't started that yet.”

He strode on to the buckboard and drove toward the creek. Joe Hartsell clucked at his team to follow, and frowned down at the key between his thumb and forefinger. “Kind of makes a man feel locked in,” he grumbled. “And having lines where to shoot quail and not. I swear, Molly, it looks like …”

Hearing his tone of hurt and self-reproach, Molly pressed close to him and made her own voice sound very gay. “I'm sure it's just for a little while, like the young man said, Joe. What do we care what the ranchers think? We can stay inside the fence just as well as not.
Look
at that big rabbit, Joe. He's too far away for a shot, but he certainly would make a fine stew, cooked up with some potatoes and onions.”

Joe shook the lines to make the team step a little faster, and glanced down thankfully at the sunbonneted head pressed against his shoulder. In an unsteady voice, he confided, “You're the finest wife a man ever had, Molly. I've been thinking maybe I made an awful bad mistake coming out here. It's not going to be any fun for you … being hated by all your neighbors.”

“I don't care,” Molly assured him stoutly. “We've got each other and … and a piece of
land
that'll grow things. Look! He's stopping up there and getting out. That must be our land, Joe. It does look rich. Rich enough to grow anything.”

Joe nodded. His eyes were bright again. The sun had dropped below the western peaks and the valley floor was tinged with the deep purple hue of twilight. The ground was flat here, sloping gently downward toward the creek.

“This is your northwest corner,” Ross Culver told them, pointing to a new stake driven firmly into the ground. “Your piece is approximately two thousand feet square, running straight down to the creek, and parallel to the creek to another stake that I'll show you tomorrow. All four corners are plainly marked so you won't have any trouble finding your boundary lines.”

“Do you mean we'll be … the only ones here?” Hartsell asked.

“For the time being,” Culver replied cheerfully. “You just happen to be the first arrivals. No doubt, more families will be along soon to keep you company. You'll be wanting to get fixed for the night,” he went on hastily, “so I won't bother you any longer. I'll be along tomorrow to see that you don't need anything.” He shut his eyes to the look of dismay on Joe and Molly's faces, spoke loudly to his team and trotted back up the slope toward the fence gate.

A complete and unnatural silence gripped the valley after his departure. As far as the eye could see there was no moving thing except the gently waving grass and the willows nodding before an evening breeze on the banks of the creek.

Joe Hartsell cleared his throat and gave his wife an oblique glance. In an unnecessarily loud voice, he said:

“I reckon we better drive on and camp by water tonight. Tomorrow … we'll locate a place to build our house.”