Part 1

WHERE THE WEST BEGINS

By Austin Hall

Author of “The Old Master,” “The Love Call,” Etc.

Billy was only a cowboy and Holman was something of a cattle king, but social distinctions didn’t figure with the U. S. marshal.

Billy waited. Out in the sagebrush a black object was shunting hither and thither over the desert road, sometimes lost in the dipping swales and again hidden by the glare of the sun scintillating upon the wind shield. From the lee of the machine a ribbon of dust trailed out into the distance. Billy put on his hat and spoke to his pinto, reining him to a slight knoll to the left whence he could get a good view of the whole country. Says Billy to the pinto:

“Pinhead, we’re going to have company--you an’ me. That’s old man Holman. He’s down from his city; an’ he’s sore an’ ornery; an’ he’s got about as many kicks in his system as a centipede with a toothache--all because you’ve been drinking his water an’ because I’m a-living. An’ we’ve got to move on, Pin, so he says--you an’ me--just because he’s Holman an’ you an’ me ain’t nothin’ but nothin’.”

The pinto cocked up one ear at the approaching car. In his own way he scented the intrusion. Billy lit a cigarette and waited. From the knoll they looked down upon the expanse of the wide valley, north, south and east. The north was a carpet of verdure and a network of irrigation canals--reclaimed desert; the south was a stretch of sagebrush and sand, and an occasional oasis; while in the east, about three miles away, a distinct line marked the border of desert and alfalfa--the hither side a dry parched yellow; the other side a cool living green. In the west, behind him, lay the mountains. Billy had a homestead at the foot of the mountains.

Like most homesteads it was ramshackle--a plain unpainted box house and a shed barn. There is something pathetic about all homesteads and this one was no exception; had it not been for a certain grim humor and the fact that Billy was a real cowman it would have been just like any other.

There was a streak of perversity about Billy Magee. When the idea of nesting first entered his head he had looked about for a place that would give excitement as well as a place to squat, until his Uncle Samuel should think fit to bestow upon him the dignity of a patent and the appendant distinction of being a law-abiding taxpayer. Just for that excitement Billy had planted his homestead in the strip of foothill level that separated the great free mountain range from the irrigated section of the valley. The green stretches belonged to the Holman Land and Water Company; and Holman, the president and whole works of the company had always regarded that strip as his own private property and had treated it as such, because no one had hitherto had the hardihood to file on it and make the promise to the government that they intended it for a home. The government range, in this instance, was a wild dry country. That it was still public land was due simply to the lack of accessible underground water. The creeks and springs had been taken up years before by individuals and had later been bought out by Holman. With the water in the big man’s hands the rest could go hang! Then along had come Billy Magee and his homestead. If the trick were successful, Billy, as well as Holman, would have contiguous access to the great free pasture. It worried Holman; Billy was inured to the desert and accustomed to its ways; wherefore it was hardly likely that his motives were those of an air-castle tenderfoot. Knowing the country as he did and realizing the value of water the cowboy would hardly have filed on the land unless he was pretty sure of just what he was doing.

So Holman figured.

Billy waited until the car came to a stop. A heavy, broad-shouldered individual sat at the wheel, a man with gray hair and a square-cut, have-my-own-way sort of jaw.

“Magee?” he asked. He looked at the cowboy out of cold gray eyes.

“Yes, sir. That’s what my ma called me.”

“Ahem.” The big man sparred. “You received my letter last winter, I believe?”

“Sure did,” said Billy. “And I answered it. Nothin’ doin’. She’s my homestead and I’m going to keep her.”

The other nodded. “Are you sure?” He pulled out a check book. “I haven’t much time. Here’s one thousand dollars, if you relinquish--or, if you don’t wish to relinquish, we’ll call it a payment of one thousand dollars on the quarter section--against the day that you get your title.”

Billy Magee shook his head.

“Nope. She’s a pretty fair piece of land. Besides”--he waved his hand toward the range--“take a look at that.”

The other bit his lip.

“Where’s your water? You can’t use my creeks. I’ve served notice to my foremen to keep you out. So far I have been lenient, but I don’t propose to give you a bit more now than the law allows. You can’t raise stock without water. I own the creeks. You can’t drill a well because your water level is too deep, here, for successful pumping.”

Billy smiled. “She’s a fair homestead at that,” he answered. “I think I’ll keep her.”

“What’s your game.”

“No game at all,” said Billy. “Just a notion. I want to pay taxes and be a real citizen.”

“You won’t relinquish?”

“Not to-day--nor to-morrow.”

The big man thought a bit; and frowned; then to relieve his feelings he pulled a black cigar from his pocket and lighted it. Billy kept company with a cigarette.

“Let me tell you something, my boy. I’m giving you a fair chance. There’s a thousand cold, hard dollars in this paper. If you take it and give me your word I’ll help you get your title--grubstake you--and when you are done you can sign the land over to me for another thousand.”

“Suppose I don’t take the thousand?”

“That’s your funeral, not mine. A thousand’s a nice chunk of money.”

“Sure is,” said Billy, “only----”

“Only what?”

“That I don’t like that kind of money. Come on, Holman, tell me the truth. Didn’t you get all those twenty thousand acres down yonder in the irrigated belt in just this fashion? I take it that you know the law on dummy homesteading?”

No answer.

“Well, I gave Uncle Sam my oath that I was after this land for Billy Magee.”

“Then we can’t do business?”

“Not to-day.”

“Huh! Well, you’ve got the law on your side. I can’t throw you off, of course--unless I want to take a chance on the Federal prison. But”--he grinned maliciously--“better watch your homestead.”

With that he started up his machine and hit down the road through the desert fringe to the great green belt that marked the patented holdings of the Holman Land and Water Company.

Billy watched him go. Then he leaned over to his pinto. “Pinhead,” he said, “you an’ me is in fer it. I wonder what the game is? Anyway, just as soon as we hear from Uncle Samuel we’re going to have a vacation.”

An hour later he had ridden out of the desert into the irrigated section to the post office. A young lady of pleasant eyes passed out a long envelope with the legend “Department of the Interior” in the upper left-hand corner. Billy tore it open.

It was a leave of absence, à la red tape, granted to one, William Magee. Homestead entry--Serial No. 56943J, et cetera.

When he had read it he put it in his pocket.

“Well, Pinhead,” he spoke, “it’s you an’ me off to see the old boys again. We’re going back to the old outfit, where they raise real cattle. Then we’ll come back to take care of Holman.”

II

Billy Magee was coming home.

During the five months that had elapsed he had picked up enough shekels to last him through another seven months of vigil. He had bought groceries, tobacco, magazines and a ukulele; and as soon as he could get a wagon he would hitch up and go for his provender. In the meantime he was bound for his homestead.

Billy was a musical cuss; that’s why he had bought the ukulele. As he loped along on the patient Pinhead he warbled the air full of music; it was melody, sweet and rich and tuned to the joy of home: for that was his nature--and the why of the homestead--just a place that he could call his own and a place where he could hang his hat.

“If we only had a wife,” he confided to Pinhead, “we’d make this little old homestead a place worth while.”

He had come up through the sagebrush; at the last turn below the knoll he came into view of the side of the house; and he stopped.

“Well, I’ll be dog-goned!” exclaimed Billy Magee.

Upon a clothesline, stretched from one corner of the house to a juniper post in the yard were a number of garments that had never been worn by Billy Magee; to wit--a calico dress, three pairs of silk stockings, some fluffy bits of lingerie, together with handkerchiefs and other articles.

He took a long breath. Though he was a handsome man he was anything but a gallant; he would do anything rather than face a woman. Which was perfectly natural considering the mode of life to which he had been accustomed. Bunk houses do not make for polish; and Billy was a confirmed bachelor. Girls were fairy creatures to be thought of--beings dreamy, distant, illusive--to be longed for! And here was one on his own homestead! For a moment he felt like giving up and returning whence he had come. But he had still the leaven of curiosity. He had quite forgotten Holman. Anyway, he would see what she looked like.

He left the pinto at the gate and entered the enclosure that he had fenced off the year before. It was the same and yet so different. From an open window there came a fragrance that made him hungry--not the bacon and eggs nor the ham and coffee of the confirmed desert rat; but the sweet irritating odor of apple pies. Surely, there was a woman. The stockings upon the line were of silk--somehow it seemed proper for them to be there. She would be young; and he set his mind that she would be pretty. Oh, yes, she would be that, and she could sing--from the house came the sweet flood of a love song.

Billy knocked at the door--his own door. Upon the panel was a piece of paper. He read:

Out where the world is in the making, Where fewer hearts in despair are aching, That’s where the West begins.

Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing, Where there’s more of giving, and less of buying, Where a man makes friends without half trying, That’s where the West begins.

“By golly,” said Billy, half to himself and half to the poem, “that’s where she begins, all right.”

Then he smiled and took off his hat; for the maker of the tantalizing pies was looking at him through the screen door. She was about as good as anything he had ever looked at. No wonder the pies smelled good! She was a demure little brunette, with cheery red lips and laughter; hair waving and done in a fashion half girlish and half womanish.

“Oh!” she said.

Billy traced his finger over the poem; he held his sombrero in the other hand.

“How do y’ do?” he answered.

She nodded pleasantly; her black eyes were not critical like those of most girls; her smile was encouraging.

“I was just reading this here poem. The fellow that wrote it sure had an idee about the West.”

She was frank and kindly.

“Do you like it?” She looked down at his chaps and at his high-heeled boots. It was as if he had walked out of the poem.

“‘Out where the West begins,’” she quoted.

“Who wrote it?”

“Chapman. He was a Denver newspaper man. Some one had started a dispute as to where the real West begins; so he sat down one day just before the paper went to press and typed out the answer. I think he got it just right. Won’t you come in?”

Evidently she was practicing the spirit of the verse. Billy stepped into his own house. And he noted the difference; everything had been renovated and feminized by the coy hands of the girl before him. His own furniture was gone. In its place was a new outfit--a small range, shining tinware on the walls, a table with a white spread--everything spic and span in tidy shape. After getting him a chair she opened the door to take a peep at the pies. In the interval Billy had time to think.

“You must excuse me,” she said when she had finished her inspection. “I didn’t want them to burn. They are the first pies I have cooked on our new homestead.”

Billy nodded. “You have taken up a homestead?”

“Oh, yes. Isn’t it dandy? You must excuse my diction; but I’d rather talk like this now that we are in the real West. I always did want to go homesteading, even when I was a little girl; but I never thought that I was to have the chance. You see, up to a year ago I was teaching school back in Ohio. I always loved the West--loved to read about it and wonder what it was really like. I had a pet dream of a real homestead where we could go out all by ourselves, like our forefathers--or Robinson Crusoe--and build up everything from nothing. I think it just the most fun! The very first thing I did when we came here was to nail Chapman’s verse to the door. Don’t you think that the men of the West are different?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Billy. “Most of them are, I guess; but I am afraid that there are some who get across the line without knowing it. How did you happen to start homesteading?”

“Oh, as to that”--she sat down and began to pat her hair, as if she could make herself look even prettier--“as to that--it was on account of my brother Arthur. He was a bookkeeper. The work in the office had undermined his health and the doctor advised him to try out of doors, to go West if he could. We had saved some money; so we decided to go homesteading.”

“What brought you to this particular section?”

“Well, I suppose it was an accident. We first came to Los Angeles to look around. Then we purchased an old car and started exploring. One day Arthur was at the land office for this district, going over the books, and ran across this quarter section.”

It puzzled Billy Magee.

“I see,” he said. “You located the land through the books and then you came here?”

“Yes. But we took the precaution to have a surveyor come with us. We stopped the first night at the Holman place. Do you know Mr. Holman?”

“I have seen him,” said Billy.

“I think he is very nice. He said he would do all he could for us. He said that he knew the location--that a mongrel horse thief had lived on it once but had been run out of the country. Just imagine--romance from the very start! A real horse thief--and I living in his house! Wouldn’t it be terrible if he should come back?” She laughed. “I always thought that they hanged the horse thieves from the bridges.”

Billy was itching under the skin but he held back his feelings. He said:

“Perhaps they would have hanged this fellow had they had a bridge. I have an idea that Holman would build one out of his own pocket if he could get a chance at him.”

“That’s what he said.”

Billy grinned.

“Supposin’ you met this black fellow--he must be black to be a horse thief, you know--would you be afraid?”

She laughed. “I don’t know. Mr. Holman gave me a pistol with which to protect myself; but I don’t think that I’d use it.”

“Why?”

“Well, because: First, I’d kind of like to know a real Western horse thief--he must be wonderful to keep living, if the West is what they say it is--and second, because I don’t believe that any girl, if she is a real girl, has need to be afraid of a mere man. Most any man can be talked into good humor if you just know how. I’d like the chance of subduing a real horse thief, bare-handed.”

Certainly she was subduing Billy. The cowboy was ready to give up his homestead; but he wanted, first, to get at the motive of Holman. Surely the big man must have known that Billy would return at the expiration of his leave of absence. Low as he held him he did not think that the cattle king would stoop so low as to deceive this girl. Perhaps--the thought startled--perhaps he had been able to so manipulate the land office that the land had been thrown open to entry. Mistakes are sometimes made. A clerical error would be very convenient to Holman.

“When did you file on this land?”

“About a month ago. Why? Is there anything wrong?”

“Oh, no. Only I am a cowboy and have lived in this country all my life. I know a great deal about homesteads. For instance, it is sometimes convenient to have witnesses who knew you at, or about, the time of entry. Have you received your notice of allowance?”

“It came about three days ago. Do you wish to see it? Shall I get it?”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt if I took a peep at it.”

In a moment she had the piece of paper. Billy took it and read it. It was the regulation notice from the department of the interior, giving the name, Jennie Ross--serial number--township--range--meridian--everything; and signed by the register and receiver of the land office. “Isn’t it all right?”

“All accordin’ to Hoyle, Miss Ross. Not a thing wrong with it.” He sniffed and looked at the oven; at the same instant the girl jumped up with a towel.

“My pies!” she exclaimed. “I was so interested. Supposing they had burned!”

During the interval Billy had a chance to take a piece of paper from his pocket; when she had the pies on the table he gave her back the notice of allowance.

“Well,” he said, “I must be going.”

She looked up at him, laughing.

“Without eating any of my pie? Shame on you. I thought you were a real cowboy!”

“Best cowboy ever was,” grinned Billy. “Do you test them all with apple pies? Better not let it be known. I know about a million cow-punchers who’d be standing in line.”

“I’ll just bet that you could eat a whole pie,” she teased.

“I’m not going to call you,” returned the man. “We’ll split the pot. Cut one in half and we’ll go evens. There now--I’ll take this one and start over in this corner.”

“All right,” she answered. “You start over there--where the West begins!”

There’s a time that comes to every man when he meets a girl on an even footing. Billy was usually bashful; it was the first time that he had ever met a real girl without stepping on his own feet or doing something equally ridiculous and self-conscious. Before he knew it he was telling Jennie Ross his whole history--outside his homestead experience--and almost everything that he knew.

“Then you are a real Western cowboy,” she exclaimed. “All my life I have wanted to know one, one who lived on the range, who lived out in the open and thought the great free things of nature. You must meet my brother and get acquainted.”

Then she went on to tell of their dreams--of a well, and alfalfa, fruit trees, a mansion, avenues, driveways--a dream that was half homesteader and half school-teacher; and most of all out of a girlish heart. Billy listened. They stepped out on the porch; the girl pointed to the irrigated lands in the distance.

“See,” she spoke. “They tell me that all that country was once government land just like this--all desert.”

“It sure was,” answered the cowboy. “And it would be desert yet were it not for the water.”

“That’s what Arthur says. It seems to me that while they were getting water they could have drilled up here just as well as down there. When we get our well all our dreams will come true.”

Billy did some thinking. He was no tenderfoot; he knew why the irrigated belt extended just so far and no farther. He was familiar with the eccentricities of water. Down there it could be tapped at a reasonable depth and was at least semi-artesian; while up on the homestead it was almost inaccessible--the elevation was higher and the water, consequently, farther from the surface. Even after it was found there was a two-hundred-foot lift before it could be utilized; and water for irrigation purposes cannot be profitably pumped more than a hundred feet.

But he said nothing to discourage her. She was having her dream. If he could he would make it all come true. He was half sorry and half doubtful; should he tell her the truth or go after Holman? He did not care for his homestead; at the very most it had been, with him, merely a whim--a place to hang his hat, a notion.

At last he took his leave. She stepped out to the gate where he had left his pinto.

“You must come back and meet my brother some day. I am sure you will like him--and I’ll have some more pies.”

“Bet you will,” said Billy. “I am going to come back. Don’t forget the pies.”

She waved her hat at him when he was out in the sagebrush and he answered with his sombrero. When he was beyond the knoll he reined in his pony. He was thinking.

From the knoll he could look down at the section line that ran to the eastward. On the desert side it could be distinguished by the straight swath that had been cleared of sagebrush; on the other side it was marked by the fence that ran into the distance. The fence was Holman’s. Billy had business with Holman. He spoke to his pinto:

“Pinhead,” said Billy Magee, “we have lost our homestead. We ain’t clever enough to deceive a lady. But we ain’t babes yet, either. You an’ me is goin’ to raise tarnation with Mr. Holman.”

Then he struck out across the country, straight down the section line toward the irrigated belt that was the patented domain of the Holman Land and Water Company. There was a road that ran through the desert parallel to the belt of green. When Billy came to this road he stopped. A black object was coming toward him--a man on horseback.

“’Lo, Billy Magee,” greeted the man. “When’d y’ get back? How’s the boys up ‘Pop’ Mobray’s way? Goin’ back t’ nestin’?”

“Thinkin’ of it,” said Billy. “Mebbe. Don’t know what I’ll do. Y’ goin’ by the mines?”

“Yep. Expect to be at the mine to-night. Why?”

“Nothin’. Only I want to write a note. Can y’ wait? I want y’ to give it to the stage driver. It’s to my old boss, Mobray. It’s kinda special; seeing as how it has to deal with a funeral.”

“A funeral?”