Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

It was no place, Lin reflected, for a fellow who didn't have a lot of sand in his craw and a boundless store of hope in his heart. As for himself, he failed to see where the homesteader could ever prosper. The land was meant for cattle—and possibly for one other industry. He rode on, thinking about that.

The sun flamed midway in the sky when he came to his own house—which in his early enthusiasm he had built somewhat larger and better than most others in the valley—and put up his horses. He cooked himself a dinner, looked around to see what had happened during his week's absence, saddled again and set out southward toward town—especially toward Gracie Henry's home. Traversing the three-mile stretch, he kept thinking about Hank Colqueen's last statement. More cattle missing, he mused. Guess I knew that before Hank did. And from all appearances there'll be others missing shortly. He smiled somewhat grimly. Hank sure aimed that statement at me. He sure did.

The Henry house, a neat affair in white and green, showed through a group of trees, and Lin, with a quick rise of spirits, trotted into the yard and slid from the saddle, grinning widely.

"Alley-alley-ahoo! Come and see what the great snowstorm left on your porch."

A girl pushed through a screen door and waved her hand gaily.

"Welcome, dusty traveler. You've been gone longer than you said you would be."

She was a lithe, straight girl with burnished red hair and clear, regular features. In some manner the heat and the sand and the hardships had left no mark on her. She seemed as exuberant and happy as if this valley were a blossoming paradise. And she also seemed glad to find Liu Ballou before her. Lin removed his hat and rubbed the whiskers on his face ruefully.

"Shucks," he said, "I guess nobody'd care much if I never got back."

"Fishing, Mister Man," she retorted. "I never answer that statement, and you ought to know it by now."

"Uh-huh, I do, but a fellow can keep trying, can't he? You might make a mistake some day. And where is the Honorable Judge Robert Lewis Henry?"

"Dad's in the house." Suddenly eagerness spread over her face. "Tell me, quick, Lin, did you have any luck this time? Did you find color?"

"There's color all over the earth, ma'am. In the sky, in the grass—"

She stamped her foot. "Don't fool me. I mean your prospecting. Did you find a sign of gold?"

The humor died from him and his lean sunburned face became impassive. "Well, I think we've got a chance—"

"We? Who is 'we'?"

He caught himself. "Just a way of saying myself," he corrected.

She moved fonvard and caught his eye with such soberness and speculation that after a moment he looked away. Not that he was shifty-eyed. There was just something so troubled in her face, something so wistfully troubled that it troubled him.

"Lin, you always fence with me. I never know the truth. Why don't you tell me things? Especially now when everybody—" She stopped short, seeing that her tongue was about to betray her.

Lin Ballou spoke sharply. "Everybody saying what? What's folks been telling you? Meddling like they always do, I suppose. Nosing into other folks business. Gracie girl, what have they said to you?"

"No," she replied, "I'll not repeat gossip. You'd think I believed it, and I don't. Only—"

The screen door groaned. A short, stubby man with a choleric face and white hair came to the porch and adjusted his glasses. This operation completed, he bent upon Lin a glum, severe gaze, pursing his lips first one way and then another. He had an air of self-importance, and though no more than a dirt farmer, he always wore a stiff shirt and high collar. Once upon a time he had been justice of the peace in some eastern state. On coming west he had clung to the title, and since he knew a smattering of law, the homesteaders often brought trivial legal matters to him for his advice.

"Howdy, Judge," Lin said, throwing up a friendly hand. "Hope you got wood enough to keep you warm in this winter weather."

"Hem," said the judge, as if reluctant to answer Lin. "Back from your futile occupation, I see." Sarcasm came readily in his words. "Find any fool's gold?"

"Well, to pair that question, I might ask you if you found any fool's water yet," Lin replied amiably.

Judge Henry threw back his head as if the answer had been an affront to his dignity. Presently he went on, in a still more sarcastic strain. "You may speak lightly if you choose, but water is more apt to come to us as a result of our labor than gold is to you—if indeed you go into the mesa for that particular purpose."

The intent of the last phrase was too plain to overlook. Gracie put an arm on her father's shoulder as if to curb his hostility. Lin regarded him soberly.

"What might you believe I do in the mesa, Judge? Have you got some idea on the matter?"

But the judge, having launched the hint, would not develop it. "Meanwhile your land lies idle. What do you intend to do with it, young man?"

Lin had recovered his temper again. "Do as everybody else does, sir. Pray for water that will never come."

Judge Henry shook his finger at Lin. "As to that, young man, you are mistaken. We will get water." He turned on his heel and retreated into the house. The screen slammed behind him. Lin smiled at Gracie.

"Judge Robert Lewis Henry entertains no high opinion of me, that's mighty plain. Well, the way of true love—"

"Lin!" Gracie said, and grew somewhat red. "But don't be angry at Dad. He has his own troubles."

"Yeah. I guess we all do, Gracie girl. Let me see, this is dance night, ain't it? Are you going with me, or have I lost out?"

"Going with you, Lin. Come to supper?"

He retreated to his pony. "You bet I will. Now, I've got to journey into the metropolis of Powder and stock up. Bye-bye."

Three hundred yards down the road he turned in his saddle to see her by the corral, watching him with shaded eyes. He flung up a hand and went on.

That father of yours is sure a snorter, he thought. It does seem like there's a lot of unkind words being propagated against me lately.

He would have been more certain of that if he had been able to overhear Judge Henry's remarks to Gracie when she stepped back into the house. The judge stood framed in the office doorway, a pudgy, disapproving statue of righteousness.

"Daughter, did I understand you to say you would go to the dance with that Ballou vagrant?"

"Vagrant? Dad, what queer, unkind words you use."

"Hem! He's no less than that and probably a great deal more. Do you know what's being said about him, daughter? It's said that he's no less than a cattle thief, and I'll not—"

"Dad, he is no such thing!" Gracie cried. "Don't you spread gossip like that. It's not right. Who told you he was a thief?"

"Oh, different parties," Judge Henry answered vaguely.

"And how do those different parties know?" she persisted. "How I hate a man or woman who'll sneak around spreading gossip. Lin Ballou is as honest as daylight!"

The judge's favorite weapon was sarcasm and he fell back upon it. "So he's such a fine, upright, industrious man, eh? Seems to me you take a great deal of interest in protecting him."

"I do," Gracie admitted.

"Hem," the judge muttered. "I don't want him around this place. I'm an honest man and I've got a reputation to keep."

But Gracie had a mind and temper of her own. She had cooked and washed and labored and kept books many years for her father and she was not afraid of him.

"Don't you mind your reputation." she said, turning into the kitchen. "He's coming to supper, and I'm going to make him the best apple pie he's ever tasted. He looked thin."

Lin Ballou, in jest, had styled Powder a metropolis, and indeed some of the merchants of the town assiduously worked to make it such. But when Lin Ballou drove into the main street from the road, he had to admit that Powder seemed doomed to crumble into the element it was named after and float away. Once it had been a sinful, turbulent little cattle town. In a later day the homesteaders had appropriated it. Now, with the land boom a thing of mournful history, it rested somnolently and nearly bankrupt under the baking sun, its single row of buildings half tenantless, the paint peeling off. With an eventful history behind it, Powder looked forward—or at least the merchants did—to the time when water should come to the valley and give it another era of prosperity.