Where the West begins

by Austin Hall

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.