“In the spring we have it to burn. Sometimes it fills the gullies and part way up the canyons, but that’s only in the Cap Rock section. Almost at the edge of the cliff the land stretches away for about three hundred miles and that’s pretty dry. Some of the ranchers drove wells, but they had to do it a dozen times before they had any luck, and most of them are driven more than a hundred feet to reach water. They force it to the surface and make pools,” Jim explained.
“Is that for the cattle?” Mr. Fenton was greatly interested.
“Yes, and to irrigate the grain.”
As he listened to the bits of description of the boys’ home in Texas, Mr. Fenton was driving along the road which ran in a wavy line all the way around the Island and in ten minutes they came to the log bridge which led to Isle La Motte. Here and there they passed Vermonters who exchanged greetings with the farmer, and occasionally they passed touring cars. Some of them were carrying full loads, while others were less crowded. A good percentage were trying to take in all the beauty of the “Islands” they were crossing, but the rest looked bored and some of them read. The cars carried plates from almost every state in the Union and were everything from shiny and new, to rattly and very old.
“Great snakes,” Jim remarked. “Looks as if the world and his wife have taken to their automobiles.”
“Glad we have Her Highness. She can’t be crowded off the road,” Bob added and he glanced a bit disdainfully at the travelers. They drove across the bridge, hurried on north and at last came to the little depot, where Mr. Fenton took on a piece of freight, chattered a moment with the agent, then took his place again.
“Now, you’ll see the farm. The place is one that Mrs. Fenton inherited from an uncle of hers. That end of Isle La Motte used to be rather thickly settled for these parts, but the old people died off and the younger ones went to other places to make their homes. It’s quite a farm, nearly three hundred acres, but most of it is timber land, and it’s too far from the main road to cultivate. If we didn’t have the other place, we should have moved over, but it seemed ideal for a poultry farm. Vermont turkeys bring a big price, so we started in a small way and soon it was quite a success. The last couple of years haven’t been so good. The birds are not easy to raise, and we expect many of them to die and don’t mind if a few are stolen, but wholesale loss—a couple of hundred went two nights before you boys arrived.”
“Cracky, that was a wollop,” Bob whistled.
“Have many raids like that?” asked Jim. It sounded like the losses on a big stock ranch.
“There have been quite a few. Well, here we are.” They drove up to the old house which had been built over a hundred years ago, but in spite of its great age, it was sturdy looking. Its architecture, doors, mullioned windows, and wide floorings in the “porch” would have gladdened the heart of a “Colonial” collector. The boys did not know this, of course, but they could appreciate that it was a great old place. Mr. Fenton honked, and in a moment the door was opened and Hezzy emerged.