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Desert Conquest; or, Precious Waters. A. M. Chisholm
Читать онлайн.Название Desert Conquest; or, Precious Waters
Год выпуска 0
isbn 4057664612205
Автор произведения A. M. Chisholm
Жанр Языкознание
Издательство Bookwire
"Stay with him, Casey!"
Dunne turned his head, and shut his teeth upon forthcoming references to his steed's pedigree. A girl, brown, lean, aquiline of feature, sat astride a big slashing bay, and watched the contest with amusement. Dunne's face, red from exertion, deepened in colour; for some of his remarks, though exceedingly apposite, had not been intended for feminine ears. He answered, between pitches, in the vernacular:
"You bet I will, Sheila! Go to it, old son! Bump to glory if you like!"
But as suddenly as he had begun the buckskin desisted. He heaved a sigh, stood still, and turned a mildly inquiring, backward eye on his rider. It was as if he had said: "What! Still there? You surprise me!"
Sheila McCrae laughed. "He's passing it off as a joke, Casey."
"He nearly got me, the old sinner," said Dunne. "Now he'll be good till next time. You miserable, imitation bad horse, some day I'll manhandle you."
"Shiner knows you won't," the girl commented.
"He knows you're fond of him. You'll quirt him when he pitches, and then give him an extra feed."
"Well, maybe," Casey admitted shamelessly. "I like the old hyena. I've frazzled out leather on his hide that cost more than he did, but I never went after him right. He certainly can drift when he has to. What's the news, Sheila? All well at the ranch?"
She nodded, running a keen eye over his face. "All well. But you're the news bureau, Casey."
"Am I?" he said. "Well, then, I haven't a piece of good news in my saddlebags—not one."
"I knew it," she said. "Well, it can't be helped, Casey. There will be some way out. Let's go on to the ranch. Supper will be ready. Most of the men won't come till afterward. I won't be at your council of war, but I want you to let me know just what you decide on."
"Of course," he replied. "You've got a better head than most men, Sheila. I don't know what we will do—haven't a notion. It looks as though we were up against a tough proposition."
His dejection was apparent, and, womanlike, she tried to cheer him. Some way would be found. The action of the railway was so high-handed and unjust that it could not succeed. But though she spoke cheerfully, her keen eyes were troubled, and her face was clouded as they rode up to the ranch.
They found Donald McCrae at the stables. He was a dark-faced giant of a man, and for all his years carried himself as straight as a young pine. All his life had been spent on the frontier. He had seen it move westward, and had moved with it from the Great Lakes across the Great Plains. He had seen it vanish, as the wild pigeon and the buffalo had gone—mysteriously, in a season, almost. Wheat fields, etched in green and gold, lay where he had made his lonely camps; orchards nestled by little lakes and in mountain valleys where he had trapped the beaver; strings of brass-bound, vestibuled coaches whirled where he had ridden his pony with the pack train shuffling behind. And here, on the Coldstream, he had made his last stand, taken up land, and turned, when past his prime, to the quiet life of a rancher.
"Light down, light down, Casey!" he called. "Put your cayuse in the stable. Give me Beaver Boy, Sheila. Go up to the house and fix us some whiskey with a chip of ice in it, like a good girl. Stir up the Chink as you go through, and make him rustle supper in a hurry. We'll be right in." He took his daughter's horse, and in the stable turned to Dunne.
"Well?" he demanded tersely.
"Nothing," Casey replied. "They stand their hand."
"I was afraid of it," said McCrae. "And they outhold us, Casey."
"Yes. Too much money."
"Will they buy us?"
"No. York offered to buy me. I was to be a decoy for the rest, I think. I refused. Now he will freeze us out."
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