Sheep Limit/Chapter 16
Rawlins was feeling his oats in those days, which time was something more than three weeks after his parting with Peck on the range. It looked as if his bold invasion of Galloway's pasture had bluffed them.
Mrs. Peck had done better than sell him an old wagon and a horse to work with wall-eyed, voracious Graball: she had gone on a spree of generosity, actuated by selfish calculation, to be sure, and supplied the adventurer a good wagon and team. That was her contribution to the opening of sheep limit, she said. If Rawlins made it stick, he could pay her for the outfit in his own time; if he should lose them in the unequal battle against the forces of the mighty, she would check the account off her book.
More than that Mrs. Peck proposed. If he could make his bluff of Government backing—she could not see it in the light of anything but a bluff—go over with Galloway's fence-riders and hold down his homestead for three months, she would let him take in a band of five hundred sheep to run on shares of the increase and shearing, which was considerably more generous than the established rule. The wool of the original flock always went to the owner under the rule of the range.
Rawlins had set out with his wagon and team, Graball trotting beside the near horse, tools and such farming implements as Mrs. Peck could lend him in the box. He had made a streak for the spot where the Government surveyors' witness stone marked a township line, which was a public highway under the law, cut the wire fence, pulled up one post, making a gap about as wide as the ordinary county road. From there he had gone to his homestead, left his tools and driven across the forbidden country to Lost Cabin.
He had to cut the fence again on that side, of course, to reach town, but it was such an unexpected event for anybody to cross there with a wagon that his breach went undiscovered by the guards, at least until he had returned safely with his load of lumber and supplies.
So there he was that bright summer day, established on his homestead, a little box house, with a window as big as a handkerchief, a stovepipe through its comb, all finished, and several tons of hay cut and stacked against the needs of winter. Nobody had molested him, nobody had visited him.
While he was several miles inside sheep limit, he knew the fence-riders must have followed his wagon tracks and looked down on his activities from the surrounding hills. They knew he was there. Why they had not come with notice to clear out he did not understand. Maybe they were waiting instructions from headquarters; perhaps lying for him when it should become necessary to go to Lost Cabin for mail and groceries.
In all those days since coming into that hole and pulling it in after him, as Rawlins considered the step he had taken, he had not heard a word from the outside. There might be wars and disasters making havoc in the world for all he knew. That was complete isolation, compared to which a sheep-herder's life was one of social gaiety.
A herder saw the camp mover once in a while, and heard the gossip of the range; he got the old newspapers and magazines in his turn as they circulated from wagon to wagon, and occasionally a wanderer came by, stopping at his camp for the night. Inside Galloway's fence nobody roamed. Herders and shearers on the go from job to job made the long detour that everybody else in that country took to get to Lost Cabin. The fear of a trespasser's fate was heavy over them all, far and near.
Edith was not cutting across the fenced land any more, her aunt having put a stern prohibition on such daring enterprise. Once in two weeks, Rawlins knew, she rode the thirty-five miles going and thirty-five miles return in a day to get the mail, and such little luxuries as salted peanuts and chocolates as a sort of compensative premium. He was only seven miles from the post office, in a straight line, quite an improvement over the condition of the bluffed and subjugated sheepmen on the outside. And his mail would be accumulating. He must saddle Graball one of these days and go after it.
That was his thought that morning as he tinkered around his haystacks completing a wire fence to keep off such stray animals as might wander around in the night or when he was away from home. It might be as well to go over that afternoon, for he was beginning to have a feeling that weeds were growing behind his ears, he had been cut off from news of the world so long.
He should have gone to the ranch, also, long before that, to let Mrs. Peck know her wagon and team were still safe in his possession, and that he was holding down his own in peace and quiet. That would be his day's work after he had made the fence snug: a trip to the post office, and go on to the ranch after coming home. There would be a big bundle of papers and magazines; they would take the edge off his lonesome, ness for days to come.
Looking ahead to that cheerful prospect, Rawlins worked on with wire stretcher and hammer, lips pressed down hard against his teeth in that queer, rather senseless whistling grin of his, the little tune he had learned to whistle that way from a Scotchman when a boy coming through his parted teeth as merrily as the pipes ever trilled it in old Caledonia. Thus occupied in thought and hand he did not hear the visitor until he rounded the little stackyard suddenly and gave him a friendly "Good-morning."
Rawlins was more pleased than startled by the sudden appearance of the man on horseback, for he was a mild-mannered person with a pleasant voice and undoubtedly friendly intention. He rode up, leaned over, offered his hand, smiling amiably.
"Hewitt is my name," he said.
"Rawlins is mine. Glad to meet you, Mr. Hewitt. Won't you get down and stretch your legs?"
"Oh, no," Hewitt returned, in the easy, comfortable way of a man who had not come far and hadn't far to go. "That's a purty little bunch of hay you've got. How long have you been here?"
"A little over three weeks."
Rawlins was wondering where Hewitt had come from. He couldn't recall having heard his name mentioned at Mrs. Peck's ranch, where the affairs of everybody within forty miles were discussed. He was a clean, lean man of forty or a little more, his khaki overalls inside his laced boots. He was not wearing spurs, he carried no gun, nothing but the usual little roll done up in a slicker behind his saddle.
"Looks like you're preparing to stay a while," Hewitt remarked, with apparent appreciation, looking around the place, lively interest in his keen, alert face, which was brown and bearded.
"Yes, I've homesteaded here," Rawlins replied, thinking Hewitt looked like a geology professor he used to have.
"That so?" said Hewitt. He put his hand to the cantle, twisting around in the saddle with freshened interest. "Well. Aren't you a little—that is to say a trifle—premature?"
"No, not so very. I'm the first one in here, I guess, but the country's been open to homestead a long time—ever since it was surveyed."
Hewitt shook his head in denial of that, urbane as ever, even smiling as he made the correction.
"It would be open to homestead ordinarily, but Senator Galloway has a big block of it leased from the Government. His lease has several years to run yet."
"Are you connected with Senator Galloway's—enterprise?"
"Yes," Hewitt replied cheerfully, "I'm superintendent of this ranch."
"Well then, Mr. Hewitt, I'd just as well tell you there is no record of a lease between Senator Galloway and the Government covering this land. I had my congressman look into the matter thoroughly before I entered this homestead. There is no record of any lease whatever."
Rawlins spoke of his congressman in that easy, proprietary fashion common to the intelligent American voter when discussing those whom he sends to legislatures to bargain off his rights in pacts and compromises and personal ambitions. It was as of something he had under his hand, some little thing to roll like a pencil or flip away like the burnt end of a match. It sounds intimate, consequential, bombastic, and deceives nobody at all.
"Is that so?" said Hewitt, evincing surprise. "He must have gone into the wrong office, or got hold of the wrong records. The senator's right to this land is incontestible—but we're not going to have any argument over that."
"I hope not, Mr. Hewitt."
"Not at all," said Hewitt heartily. "You're an unusual type of man to be staking out your life homesteading in this country, Mr. Rawlins. A young man of your intelligence and education could get a whole lot more out of life, it seems to me, in some other pursuit. What was your business before you came out here, if you'll allow me to inquire?"
"Certainly. I used to ride the range in western Kansas. Later on I was editor of a little one-horse weekly in the short grass country—they call it the golden belt now, the wheat belt, you know."
"So, you're from Kansas? That's a great State, remarkable people. Editor of a paper? Well, that's more like it. There's about where I can see you—editor of a paper. You fit that job, but you don't belong here in this sheep country, especially on a lonesome little homestead. You're not the type of man to make it go, Rawlins, even if you had the legal right to take up this land. What was your object? Not a kind of a—holdup, was it?"
"Not at all, sir," Rawlins replied stiffly.
"No offense intended, Rawlins. That happens; there's a class of men who go around and squat on leased land with the premeditated intention of holding the lessee up to get them off without going to law. It's cheaper, sometimes, and saves a lot of bother, especially where a man doesn't want to shoot anybody up. I didn't think you looked like that kind of a man, but you never can tell."
"My intentions are honest, then, as far as that goes," Rawlins said, passing it off with a laugh. "I've been figuring on this country a good while—long before I left Kansas—planning on going into the sheep business. That's why I picked this location to homestead. There's plenty of water here."
"Yes, it's a good location for a sheep ranch," Hewitt agreed, not with much warmth. His manner implied, in fact, that it was an excellent spot for Senator Galloway to establish a sheep ranch, but a very poor place for Rawlins.
"Have you bought your stock?" Hewitt inquized, shrewdly interested.
"Not yet."
"That's lucky." Hewitt was genuinely relieved, it appeared. "I'd hate to see you throw away your investment. Frankly, Rawlins, we can't let you run sheep in here, or stay in here at all. If we let the bars down to one we'd be overrun with farmers and sheepmen in a month. You can see that as well as anybody."
"I don't want to have a row with you folks over it, Mr. Hewitt, but I know I'm acting in my legal rights, and I'm going to stay. We might as well come to that first as last, since you've served notice on me to get out. I've entered this homestead, paid my fee, and have my receipt from the land agent at Jasper. Here it is."
"I'll waive the reading of it, Mr. Rawlins," Hewitt laughed, with a graceful gesture. "That fool feller down at Jasper has made a mistake. There's nothing to it, Rawlins; it won't stick. We've got this land under lease, and of course we'll defend our rights. You'd expect us to do that, you'd do that under the same circumstances yourself."
"Exactly, Mr. Hewitt. That's what I'm going to do. If Senator Galloway has a lease, let him bring an action against me for trespass, or unlawful occupation and retention of his land. If he can produce his lease in court, I'll back down as gracefully as a badly mistaken man can back, but on no other terms."
"We don't do things that way in this country, Rawlins. You can see where that would lead us. If we go to lawing with one squatter a hundred of them would rush us while we're waiting the court's decision. We'd never get anywhere. But we'll give you better terms than we would another man in your shoes, seeing that you've come from a long way off and been misled. We'll let you take your improvements out, and we'll buy your hay, although we could prosecute you, when it comes to talking of law, for coming in here and cutting it. I'll send a couple of men over to help you tear down your shanty and load it on your wagon, if you want me to."
"When the United States Government says it has made a mistake in granting me homestead entry to this land, I'll move the house, Mr. Hewitt. Otherwise, it's there to stay. And I haven't any hay to sell. I'll need that for my sheep next winter."
"You're a kind of a brash young feller, Rawlins, but that's because you don't realize the hopelessness of the thing you're up against here. These sheepmen around here can tell you what a man can expect if he tries to put anything like this over on Galloway. You'd better take a couple of days and inquire around."
"I've heard all about it. I knew what to expect when I came in here."
"We've got all the sheep this pasture will carry in here now, Rawlins; there's not a ghost of a show for any more. You think it over. Day after to-morrow I'll send two or three men over to help you tear down your shanty if you've changed your mind. If you haven't, I expect they'll tear it down anyhow. You'd might as well go gracefully, and save your pride."
"I'll be here when they come, and the house is not going to be torn down."
"A couple of days can make a big difference in a man's opinion, sometimes," Hewitt said, laughing a little in his sure and easy way. "I've known a man to change his politics in two minutes down in Texas. Would eight dollars a ton be about right for that hay? I guess we can figure it near enough in the stack. I'd just as well give you a check for it now—I don't know when I'll be over this way again."
"You don't seem to get me right," Rawlins found himself arguing with this persistent, suavely-inflexible man. He was annoyed because he had to argue it, when his purpose was so unalterable to himself. "The hay is not for sale at any price. And there are two sides to this advice about thinking it over. You've got a big think coming to you before you make a move to throw me out of here without process of law. If I'ma trespasser, prove it in court and I'll go without a word.
"These people all around here know Galloway grabbed this land out of the public domain and fenced it. He has no lease; he isn't paying the Government a cent for the use of it. And these poor rabbits are riding forty miles for their mail around Galloway's fence when they've got a legal right to tear it down anywhere. It's a principle of common law, established by centuries of practice, that anybody has a right to remove a common nuisance. There's not a bit of use to argue and bluff around, Mr. Hewitt. I'm here to stay."
Hewitt stiffened up at this, looking somewhat hurt by the first defiance he ever had taken from a man in the Dry Wood country. He looked at Rawlins with a wrinkling of concentration around his eyes, steadily, sharply, for a moment.
"You mean well, Rawlins, but you're a damn fool," he said dispassionately, entirely free of contempt. It was merely a mild statement of what he plainly believed a fact so apparent to everybody that no stress was required.
That said, Hewitt rode on, cantering easily, riding as lightly as the just and law-abiding man he would have the homesteader believe him to be.