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.