Ernest Haycox - The Greatest Westerns of Ernest Haycox

He gathered the meaning. Why, this was as ancient as gilding a brick, and as crude. Grist shook his head. "They must want possession fearfully bad. How do they expect me to surround the land agent? I rise to inquire. Grist, you'll earn that extra hundred and live to spend it yet in a Federal jail."

He folded the note, mulling the situation over and over in his mind. Finally he surrendered. Every man has a dream of creating an empire. Grist had his dream; as far as that went he already possessed the empire and was its titular ruler. But the horizons spread out. More land, more power. And if he didn't do this piece of work some less soft-hearted fellow would. "Therefore, Grist, be about the business. Be about it."

He sought the land office. The agent saw him come, and before the P.R.N. man said anything the agent beckoned him to an inner room, closed the door, and went through all the motions of extreme secrecy. The fellow looked harried.

"I know what you're here for," he muttered. "I know what it is."

"You do?" was Grist's puzzled question. "Well, by Gad, you know more than I do. I'm in a state of mind."

"I got a telegram from a certain gentleman in Washington," explained the agent. "A gentleman who exerts considerable influence in some quarters."

"And so did I," grunted the P.R.N. man in evident relief. This made the whole thing easy. How had they managed to pull wires across all this distance? His opinion of his superiors rose.

The agent struck his knee. "Now, for God's sake, don't give me away! I owe somebody for this job, and I'm paying my debts."

"With perhaps an added consideration for the case in hand," suggested Grist, feeling himself in control of the situation.

"I swear not!" exclaimed the agent earnestly. "Do you know what would happen to me if...Well, I'd wear stripes."

"Entirely unbecoming to one of your tastes," murmured Grist. "Well, let's get to our muttons—or our beeves."

"I do it under duress," said the agent. "If the commissioner ever got wind of it I'd be crucified and hung up as a specimen."

"Protest registered. Ever read what Shakespeare said about protests? Never mind. Go on with the details."

The agent leaned across the desk. "When Gillette filed he brought the location marks, and they were inserted in the application. One of those location marks ended in a figure three. The three has been changed to an eight. I won't say when or where or how or by whom. But it's been changed. Do you understand?"

"Therefore," mused Grist, "Gillette is squatting beside water he has no right to. And that particular strip of land along the river is open to filing. Just so. But how about the responsibility of the land office? Weren't you supposed to know when he filed the location—I mean the location the application now shows—whether or not it was the place he had in mind?"

"We're not supposed to meet a man's mind," said the agent. "He gave me the figures. I registered them. As a matter of course I looked on the record to see if that location had or had not been previously filed. That's all of my responsibility."

Grist got up. "Very fine. You make out a new set of papers. I'll bring in one of my riders to sign 'em. He'll be the legal petitioner. Next in order is a writ of eviction. Squatters right doesn't apply on entry land, does it? Just so."

"Gillette will contest that," muttered the agent. "There'll be a stink. But they can't prove malfeasance on me. It's his error, that's all. Not my error. I'll swear those were the figures he gave me. And what influence has he in the East, anyhow?"

"That's the essential point. You stick to your story with a steadfast heart. Virtue is not alone in receiving rewards."

He went out, immeasurably encouraged by the turn of events. It put him in a fighting humour. There was substantial support back of him. Gillette couldn't fight Federal authority.

In the course of forty-eight hours he brought a P.R.N. puncher in to file, also got a writ of eviction, and also by use of sundry witnesses, had a warrant issued for Gillette on the charge of murdering his foreman. On the appointed hour and day he met the United States Marshal, one W. G. Hannery, and rode out of Nelson, bound toward the Circle G to see the writ executed and the warrant served.

"You tried to obtain possession of these premises?" demanded the marshal, not in love with his mission.

"No, certainly not."

"Then what the hell about all this hocus-pocus?"

"Listen, how near that ranch do you suppose Gillette would let me approach? How long do you figure he'd listen to me?"

"Not much longer'n I'd listen to you, if it was me in the same skiff," said the marshal. "I'm telling you, frankly, I don't like to see a white man's country tied up by a bunch of Eastern highbinders, Grist."

Grist smiled. "How Eastern? That strip is being filed on by one of my punchers. A son of the range, a product of the glorious West who never was east of the Dakota line and never owned more than a silver-mounted saddle in his life."

"Gush," snorted the marshal. "I'm dry behind the ears. That's the old dodge. Well, if I got to do it, then I got to do it. But you want to figure a high-power rifle kicks back blamed near as hard as it shoots forward. Which applies to Gillette. And don't come running to me if you get hurt. You're going to discover you can't hide behind the petticoats of Justice all the time."

The two of them arrived at the Circle G houses and were confronted by Quagmire and Christine Ballard. The marshal, under the influence of her smile, thawed and reached for his hat.

"I'm inquirin' for Tom Gillette."

"Deadwood," grunted Quagmire. "I'm jef here temporary. Le's have the hard news."

"Orders to get off," was the marshal's equally laconic answer. "You ain't on the place you filed on. Said place, apparently, is nearer the north pole. This fellow"—indicating Grist—"has got the drop on you boys."

Quagmire squinted at Grist until the latter shifted in the saddle. But the wizened puncher showed no surprise at the news. He dwelt in pessimism, he always expected the worst to happen. He contented himself with saying, "Something smells around here."

"I didn't ask him to come along," explained the marshal. He got down and tacked the notice to the ranchhouse wall. "Said movin' orders are meant to be promptly obeyed. But seein' as Gillette ain't here and it'd work a plain hardship to move without him on hand to superintend such I'll hold off till he get back."

"Oh, look here," protested Grist.

"Shut up. I obey my orders. I also got a right to interpret some of 'em. I'm doin' a little interpretin' now. If you don't like it write East to them land grabbers." He remounted and started away. Then yards off he turned in the saddle and added, as an apparent afterthought, "I also hold a warrant for Gillette. Murder. Have to execute that personally. When you see him, tell him to come and get it."

Quagmire met the marshal's sober glance and held it for a long while. "Yeah. All right."

"Listen," cried Grist, suddenly aroused, "are you trying to warn Gillette away?"

"A man's got a right to know the law's after him," was the marshal's blunt answer. "Out here he has. That's another interpretation. You better be amiable, brother, or I'll let you ride across Gillette range alone. And how far do you think you'd get before a bullet slapped you down?"

They went on. Quagmire waited only until the two were decently beyond talking distance before he turned to read the notice its full length. Then he ran for the bunkhouse and collected his possibles. He saddled a horse and he haltered another. He gave abrupt orders to one of the arriving punchers. "Yo' in charge, Red. I'm lopin' fo' Deadwood to find Tom."

Christine crossed the yard and put a detaining hand on Quagmire's arm. "Tell him I'm still waiting."