The Flying U's Last Stand Read online

  The Happy Family looked dumbly at one another and drew back closer to the depot wall.

  "Aw, I knowed there was some ketch to it!" blurted Happy Jack with dismal satisfaction. "That there ain't no colony—It's nothin' but a bunch of schoolma'ams!"

  "That lady ridin' point is the lady herself," Andy murmured, edging behind Weary and Pink as the flutter came closer. "That's Florence Grace Hallman, boys."

  "Well, by golly, git out and speak your little piece, then!" muttered Slim, and gave Andy an unexpected push that sent him staggering out into the open just as the leaders were coming up.

  "Why, how de do, Mr. Green!" cried the blonde leader of the flock. "This is an unexpected pleasure, I'm sure."

  "Yes ma'am, it is," Andy assented mildly, with an eye cocked sidewise in search of the guilty man.

  The blonde leader paused, her flock coming to a fluttering, staring stand behind her. The nostrils of the astonished Happy Family caught a mingled odor of travel luncheons and perfume.

  "Well, where have you been, Mr. Green? Why didn't you come and see me?" demanded Florence, Grace Hallman in the tone of one who has a right to ask leading questions. Her cool, brown, calculating eyes went appraisingly over the Happy Family while she spoke.

  "I've been right around here, all the time," Andy gave meek account of himself. "I've been busy."

  "Oh. Did you go over the tract, Mr. Green?" she lowered her voice.

  "Yes-s—I went over it."

  "And what do you think of it—privately?"

  "Privately—it's pretty big." Andy sighed. The bigness of that tract had worried the Happy Family a good deal.

  "Well, the bigger the better. You see I've got 'em started." She flicked a glance backward at her waiting colony. "You men are perfectly exasperating! Why didn't you tell me where you were and what you were doing?" She looked up at him with charming disapproval. "I feel like shaking you! I could have made good use of you, Mr. Green."

  "I was making pretty good use of myself," Andy explained, and wished he knew who gave him that surreptitious kick on the ankle. Did the chump want an introduction? Well! In that case—

  "Miss Hallman, if you don't mind I'd like to introduce some men I rounded up and brought here," he began before the Happy Family could move out of the danger zone of his imagination. "Representative citizens, you see. You can sic your bunch onto 'em and get a lot of information. This is Mr. Weary Davidson, Miss Hallman: He's a hayseed that lives out that way and he talks spuds better than anything else. And here's Slim—I don't know his right name—he raises hogs to a fare-you-well. And this is Percy Perkins"—meaning Pink—"and he's another successful dryfarmer. Goats is his trade. He's got a lot of 'em. And Mr. Jack Bates, he raises peanuts—or he's trying 'em this year—and has contracts to supply the local market. Mr. Happy Jack is our local undertaker. He wants to sell out if he can, because nobody ever dies in this country and that makes business slow. He's thinking some of starting a duck-ranch. This man"—indicating Big Medicine—"has got the finest looking crop of volunteer wild oats in the country. He knows all about 'em. Mr. Emmett, here, can put you wise to cabbage-heads; that's his specialty. And Mr. Miguel Rapponi is up here from Old Mexico looking for a favorable location for an extensive rubber plantation. The natural advantages here are simply great for rubber.

  "I've gone to some trouble gathering this bunch together for you, Miss Hallman. I don't reckon you knew there was that many dry-farmers in the country. They've all got ranches of their own, and the prettiest folders you ever sent under a four-cent stamp can't come up to what these men can tell you. Your bunch won't have to listen to one man, only—here's half a dozen ready and waiting to talk."

  Miss Hallman was impressed. A few of the closest homeseekers she beckoned and introduced to the perspiring Happy Family—mostly feminine homeseekers, of whom there were a dozen or so. The men whom the hotel had sent down with rigs waited impatiently, and the unintroduced male colonists stared at the low rim of Lonesome Prairie and wondered if over there lay their future prosperity.

  When the Happy Family finally made their escape, red-faced and muttering threats, Andy Green had disappeared, and no one knew when he went or where. He was not in Rusty Brown's place when the Happy Family went to that haven and washed down their wrongs in beer. Pink made a hurried trip to the livery stable and reported that Andy's horse was gone.

  They were wondering among themselves whether he would have the nerve to go home and await their coming—home at this stage of the game meaning One Man coulee, which Andy had taken as a homestead and desert claim and where the Happy Family camped together until such time as their claim shacks were habitable. Some thought that he was hiding in town, and advised a thorough search before they took to their horses. The Native Son—he of mixed Irish and Spanish blood—told them with languid certainty that Andy was headed straight for the camp because he would figure that in camp was where they would least expect to find him.

  The opinions of the Native Son were usually worth adopting. In this case, however, it brought them into the street at the very moment when Florence Grace Hallman and two homeseekers had ventured from the hotel in search of them. Slim and Jack Bates and Cal Emmett saw them in time and shied across the street and into the new barber shop where they sat themselves down and demanded unnecessary hair-cuts and a shampoo apiece, and spied upon their unfortunate fellows through the window while they waited; but the others met the women fairly since it was too late to turn back without making themselves ridiculous.

  "I was wondering," began Miss Hallman in her brisk, business tone, "if some of you gentlemen could not help us out in the matter of conveyances. I have made arrangements for most of my guests, but we simply can't squeeze another one into the rigs I have engaged—and I've engaged every vehicle in town except a wheelbarrow I saw in the back yard of the hotel."

  "How many are left out?" asked Weary, since no one else showed any symptoms of speech.

  "Oh, not many, thank goodness. Just us three here. You've met Miss Allen, Mr. Davidson—and Miss Price. And so have you other gentlemen, because I introduced you at the depot. I went blandly ahead and told everybody just which rig they were to ride in, and put three in a seat, at that, and in counting noses I forgot to count our own—"

  "I really don't see how she managed to overlook mine," sighed Miss Allen, laying a dainty, gloved finger upon a nose that had the tiniest possible tilt to it. "Nobody ever overlooked my nose before; it's almost worth walking to the tract."

  Irish, standing close beside Weary and looking enough like him to be a twin instead of a mere cousin, smiled down at her with traitorous admiration. Miss Allen's nose was a nice nose, and above it twinkled a pair of warm brown eyes with humorous little wrinkles, around them; and still above them fluffed a kinky-curly mass of brown hair. Weary looked at her also, but he did not smile, because she looked a little like his own schoolma'am, Miss Ruty Satterly—and the resemblance hurt a sore place in his heart.

  "—So if any of you gentlemen could possibly take us out to the tract, we'd be eternally grateful, besides keeping our independence intact with the usual payment. Could you help us out?"

  "We all came in on horseback," Weary stated with a gentle firmness that was intended to kill their hopes as painlessly as possible.

  "Wouldn't there be room on behind?" asked Miss Allen with hope still alive and flourishing.

  "Lots of room," Weary assured her. "More room than you could possibly use."

  "But isn't there any kind of a rig that you could buy, beg, borrow or steal?" Miss Hallman insisted. "These girls came from Wisconsin to take up claims, and I've promised to see that they get the best there is to be had. They are hustlers, if I know what the word means. I have a couple of claims in mind, that I want them to see—and that's why we three hung back till the rest were all arranged for. I had a rig promised that I was depending on, and at the last minute discovered it was not to be had. Some doctor from Havre came and got it for a trip into the hills. There's no
use talking; we just must get out to the tract as soon as the others do—a little sooner wouldn't hurt. Couldn't you think of some way?"

  "We'll try," Irish promised rashly, his eyes tying to meet Miss Allen's and succeeding admirably.

  "What has become of Mr. Green?" Miss Hallman demanded after she had thanked Irish with a smile for the qualified encouragement.

  "We don't know," Weary answered mildly. "We were trying to locate him ourselves."

  "Oh, were you? He seems a rather uncertain young man. I rather counted on his assistance; he promised—"

  "Mr. Irish has thought of a rig he can use, Miss Hallman," said the Allen girl suddenly. "He's going to drive us out himself. Let's hurry and get ready, so we can start ahead of the others. How many minutes will it take you, Mr. Irish, to have that team here, for us?"

  Irish turned red. He HAD thought of a rig, and he had thought of driving them himself, but he could not imagine how Miss Allen could possibly; have known his thoughts. Then and there he knew who would occupy the other half of the front seat, in case he did really drive the team he had in mind.

  "I told you she's a hustler," laughed Miss Hallman. "She'll be raising bigger crops than you men—give her a year to get started. Well, girls, come on, then."

  They turned abruptly away, and Irish was left to his accounting with the Happy Family. He had not denied the thoughts and intentions imputed to him by the twinkling-eyed Miss Allen. They walked on toward the livery stable—where was manifested an unwonted activity—waiting for Irish to clear himself; which he did not do.

  "You going to drive them women out there?" Pink demanded after an impatient silence.

  "Why not? Somebody'll have to."

  "What team are you going to use!" asked Jack Bates.

  "Chip's" Irish did not glance around, but kept striding down the middle of the road with his hands stuck deep in his pockets.

  "Don't you think you need help, amigo?" the Native Son insinuated craftily. "You can't talk to three girls at once; I could be hired to go along and take one off your hands. That should help some."

  "Like hell you will!" Irish retorted with characteristic bluntness. Then he added cautiously, "Which one?"

  "That old girl with the blue eyes should not be permitted to annoy the driver," drawled the Native Son. "Also, Florence Grace might want some intelligent person to talk to."

  "Well, I got my opinion of any man that'll throw in with that bunch," Pink declared hotly. "Why don't you fellows keep your own side the fence. What if they are women farmers? They can do just as much harm—and a darn sight more. You make me sick."

  "Let 'em go," Weary advised calmly. "They'll be a lot sicker when the ladies discover what they've helped do to that bench-land. Come on, boys—let's pull out, away from all these lunatics. I hate to see them get stung, but I don't see what we can do about it—only, if they come around asking me what I think of that land, I'm going to tell 'em."

  "And then they'll ask you why you took claims up there, and you'll tell 'em that, too—will you?" The Native Son turned and smiled at him ironically.

  That was it. They could not tell the truth without harming their own cause. They could not do anything except stand aside and see the thing through to whatever end fate might decree. They thought that Irish and the Native Son were foolish to take Chip's team and drive those women fifteen miles or so that they might seize upon land much better left alone; but that was the business of Irish and the Native Son, who did not ask for the approval of the Happy Family before doing anything they wanted to do.

  The Happy Family saddled and rode back to the claims, gravely discussing the potentialities of the future. Since they rode slowly while they talked, they were presently overtaken by a swirl of dust, behind which came the matched browns which were the Flying U's crack driving team, bearing Irish and Miss Allen of the twinkling eyes upon the front seat of a two seated spring-wagon that had seen far better days than this. Native Son helped to crowd the back seat uncomfortably, and waved a hand with reprehensible cheerfulness as they went rattling past.

  The Happy Family stared after them with frowning disapproval, and Weary turned in the saddle and looked ruefully at his fellows.

  "Things won't ever be the same around here," he predicted soberly. "There goes the beginning of the end of the Flying U, boys—and we ain't big enough to stop it."

  CHAPTER 8. FLORENCE GRACE HALLMAN SPEAKS PLAINLY

  Andy Green rode thoughtfully up the trail from his cabin in One Man coulee, his hat tilted to the south to shield his face from the climbing sun, his eyes fixed absently upon the yellow soil of the hillside. Andy was facing a problem that concerned the whole Happy Family—and the Flying U as well. He wanted Weary's opinion, and Miguel Rapponi's, and Pink's—when it came to that, he wanted the opinion of them all.

  Thus far the boys had been wholly occupied with getting their shacks built and in rustling cooking outfits and getting themselves settled upon their claims with an air of convincing permanency. Also they had watched with keen interest—which was something more vital than mere curiosity—developments where the homeseekers were concerned, and had not given very much thought to their next step, except in a purely general way.

  They all recognized the fact that, with all these new settlers buzzing around hunting claims where there was some promise of making things grow, they would have to sit very tight indeed upon their own land if they would avoid trouble with "jumpers." Not all the homeseekers were women. There were men, plenty of them; a few of them were wholly lacking in experience it is true, but perhaps the more greedy for land because of their ignorance. The old farmers had looked askance at the high, dry prairie land, where even drinking water must be hauled in barrels from some deep-set creek whose shallow gurgling would probably cease altogether when the dry season came on the heels of June. The old farmers had asked questions that implied doubt. They had wanted to know about sub-soil, and average rainfall, and late frosts, and markets. The profusely illustrated folders that used blue print for emphasis here and there, seemed no longer to satisfy them.

  The Happy Family did not worry much about the old farmers who knew the game, but there were town men who had come to see the fulfillment of their dreams; who had burned their bridges, some of them, and would suffer much before they would turn back to face the ridicule of their friends and the disheartening task of getting; a fresh foothold in the wage-market. These the Happy Family knew for incipient enemies once the struggle for existence was fairly begun. And there were the women—daring rivals of the men in their fight for independence—who had dreamed dreams and raised up ideals for which they would fight tenaciously. School-teachers who hated the routine of the schools, and who wanted freedom; who were willing to work and wait and forego the little, cheap luxuries which are so dear to women; who would cheerfully endure loneliness and spoiled complexions and roughened hands and broken nails, and see the prairie winds and sun wipe the sheen from their hair; who would wear coarse, heavy-soled shoes and keep all their pretty finery packed carefully away in their trunks with dainty sachet pads for month after month, and take all their pleasure in dreaming of the future; these would fight also to have and to hold—and they would fight harder than the men, more dangerously than the men, because they would fight differently.

  The Happy Family, then, having recognized these things and having measured the fighting-element, knew that they were squarely up against a slow, grim, relentless war if they would save the Flying U. They knew that it was going to be a pretty stiff proposition, and that they would have to obey strictly the letter and the spirit of the land laws, or there would be contests and quarrels and trouble without end.

  So they hammered and sawed and fitted boards and nailed on tar-paper and swore and jangled and joshed one another and counted nickels—where they used to disdain counting anything but results—and badgered the life out of Patsy because he kicked at being expected to cook for the bunch just the same as if he were in the Flying U mess-house. Py cosh, he w
ouldn't cook for the whole country just because they were too lazy to cook for themselves, and py cosh if they wanted him to cook for them they could pay him sixty dollars a month, as the Old Man did.

  The Happy Family were no millionaires, and they made the fact plain to Patsy to the full extent of their vocabularies. But still they begged bread from him, a loaf at a time, and couldn't see why he objected to making pie, if they furnished the stuff. Why, for gosh sake, had they planted him in the very middle of their string of claims, then? With a dandy spring too, that never went dry except in the driest years, and not more than seventy-five yards, at the outside, to carry water. Up hill? Well, what of that? Look at Pink—had to haul water half a mile from One Man Creek, and no trail. Look at Weary—had to pack water twice as far as Patsy. And hadn't they clubbed together and put up his darned shack first thing, just so he COULD get busy and cook? What did the old devil expect, anyway?

  Well—you see that the Happy Family had been fully occupied in the week since the arrival of the homeseekers' excursion. They could not be expected to give very much thought to their next steps. But there was Andy, who had only to move into the cabin in One Man coulee, with a spring handy, and a stable for his horse, and a corral and everything. Andy had not been harassed with the house-building and settling, except as he assisted the others. As fast as the shacks were up, the Happy Family had taken possession, so that now Andy was alone, stuck down there in the coulee out of sight of everybody. Pink had once named One Man coulee as the lonesomest hole in all that country, and he had not been far wrong. But at any rate the lonesomeness had served one good purpose, for it had started Andy to thinking out the details of their so called land-pool. Now the thinking had borne fruit to the extent that he felt an urgent need of the Happy Family in council upon the subject.