The Land of Strong Men Part 26

"Do you know anything about it?"

"No, but I could learn, I suppose."

"I suppose you might. But the work is hard--man's work. I wouldn't buy a ranch, if I were you."

"But I have one--or the makings of one. A few years ago Uncle G.o.dfrey bought nearly a thousand acres for father. I'm afraid there isn't much of it cleared, and there is no house fit to live in. I had been to look at it, and was riding back by this old logging camp. That's how I happened to be here."

"Where is this land?" Angus asked.

Her reply gave him almost as much of a shock as he had received from the bear; for as she described it, the land, or at least part of it, was none other than the old Tetreau place which Mr. Braden had painstakingly tried to unload on Chetwood. But if it belonged to her or to her father how could Braden sell it? And then, again, she had spoken of nearly a thousand acres, while the old Tetreau place comprised some five hundred only. Something of his thoughts reflected in his face.

"Do you know the land?" she asked.

"Yes, I know it," he admitted. "Have you ever thought of selling the land instead of ranching it? Has any one ever tried to sell it for you?"

"Oh, no," she replied. "I don't want to sell it--yet, a while, anyway.

Father's idea was to hold it till land increased very much in value.

Uncle G.o.dfrey told him that was bound to occur. It was an investment, you see. It cost only ten dollars an acre."

"You mean your father paid ten thousand dollars for the land!" Angus exclaimed.

"Yes, in round figures. He never saw it. Uncle G.o.dfrey said it was well worth that, and of course he knows."

There was little that Angus could say. He was no stranger to wild-catting in lands, but he held to the old idea that agricultural land is worth what it will grow and no more: a maxim which, if remembered by prospective purchasers, would cut down both sales and disappointments. But the puzzling thing was that G.o.dfrey French, who wasn't an easy mark by any means, should have advised his relative to pay ten dollars an acre for land half of which was too rough to cultivate and of which all was non-irrigable; and this at a time when good, wild land was to be had in plenty for from three to five dollars an acre. Added to that was the abortive Braden-Chetwood deal. The one clear thing was that Faith Winton had a bunch of worthless land. He hoped that it did not represent her entire patrimony.

"You will find it hard work starting a ranch," he said. "Clearing, breaking, fencing and so on are expensive, too."

"But whatever I spend will make the place worth that much more, and then if I wish to sell I would have a better chance. People always prefer to buy improved properties, I'm told."

Angus had neither the heart nor the nerve to tell her the truth.

Everything went to show that her father had been deliberately stung by G.o.dfrey French. Never in the world would he have paid ten dollars of his own money for such a property. Had he paid ten dollars of Winton's money? Angus doubted it. In plain language, his thought was that French had paid about three dollars an acre, and either pocketed the difference or split it with the seller.

"What does your uncle think about it?" he asked.

"He doesn't want me to try ranching. He says the place is increasing in value anyway, and that I should not be in a hurry to sell."

Naturally, thought Angus, that would be French's advice. Perhaps he had had the handling of the property, and Braden had been acting for him when trying to sell to Chetwood. If that sale had gone through, half the property would have been sold for what had been paid for the whole, and the remainder, worthless or not, would have been velvet. But as it was French was in a tight box, and the only thing he could do was to advise the girl to let the place alone, and hope that nothing would occur to arouse her suspicions. Angus half wished for her sake that he had not blocked the sale to Chetwood.

"You see," she said, "I have to do something for a living. I haven't enough to keep me in idleness, and anyway I don't want to be idle. But I didn't mean to bother you with my worries. I don't know why it is, but I find myself talking to you just as frankly as when I was the little, lost girl and you were the big boy. Perhaps I am a little lost, still.

You--you seem comforting, somehow." She considered for a moment.

"Perhaps it's the bigness of you. But I don't talk to Gavin as I do to you, and I know him much better. Why is it?"

"I don't know, but I'm glad of it," Angus told her. "I want to help you if I can."

"Now, I believe that's why," she said. "You want to help folks who need it. That's the secret of it."

"Nothing of the sort," Angus told her. Suddenly he realized that the sun was low above the western ranges and that the early fall evening was coming. "We'll have to be moving if we're to get home by dark," he said.

"To-morrow I'll skin out the bear."

"Oh--my pony!" she exclaimed. "I never thought of him."

"No use looking for him. Likely he headed for home. You'll ride my horse."

"And let you walk? Indeed, no!"

"Of course you will."

"But I won't. You're hurt--"

"Not a bit," Angus lied cheerfully.

"Yes, you are. There, you see, you're almost too stiff to walk. I won't have it, Angus, really I won't."

Angus did not argue the point further. He was accustomed to having his own way with girls, or at least with Jean. He was sore and stiff, and when he first moved a sharp pain in his side made him catch his breath, but he knew that the best cure for stiffness is movement. They crossed the creek and he saddled Chief, and without a word began to take up the stirrups.

"Angus," said Faith Winton, "I meant what I told you. I rode your pony years ago, when I was a little, lost girl--"

"What are you now?"

"A pedestrian," she said with determination.

"Now, see," Angus urged. "It's over five miles. Your shoes would be cut to pieces on the rocks, and you'd be tired out. So you're going to ride."

"I'm _not_, Angus! What are you--Oh!"

For Angus, finding that argument was a waste of time had picked her up and put her in the saddle. Thence she stared down at him, and now there was no lack of color in her cheeks.

"Angus Mackay! What--what do you mean?"

"You are going to ride," Angus told her with finality, "and that is all there is to it."

"I'm not used to being thrown about like a sack of oats!" she flashed, and would have dismounted, but he stopped her. "How dare you!" she cried. "Let me down! Take your hands off me, Angus Mackay!"

"Then behave sensibly!" said Angus.

"Sensibly! My heavens! do you think I'm a child?"

"A child would be glad to ride."

"Do you think you can make me do things merely because you're stronger?"

"Yes," Angus told her flatly, "some things. This, for one."

"Admitting that--you're brutal!"

"And admitting that," Angus returned, "will you act like a sensible girl?"

For a moment she frowned at him, her eyes stormy, dark with anger. And then, slowly, she bent low over the saddle horn, and turned her face away, while a sob shook her slight figure. At which awful spectacle Angus' resolution suddenly melted to contrition.