“Davison ain’t doin’ as well as he might, I hear?”
He plucked a straw and set it between his teeth.
“Not doing well at all,” said Fogg.
“Well, it’s a pity; but them that makes trouble must expect trouble.”
When Lemuel Fogg returned to Paradise Valley a month later Philip Davison was not changed greatly. His mind was clear, but his physical condition was low. Clayton remained with him much of the time, when not called away to visit other patients. But Davison never spoke to him of Ben nor of Justin.
With Fogg at this time came a man who represented an Eastern home-builders’ association, whose object was to establish homes for worthy but comparatively poor men in favorable places on the cheap lands of the West. The association was conducted by charitable men and women who had collected funds for their enterprise. There were many excellent families, this man said, in cities and elsewhere, who would be glad to go upon farms, if only they could do so. It was the purpose of this society to help such people. It would place them upon farms, furnish comfortable houses, give them a start, and permit them to repay the outlay in longtime installments. The self-respect of a farming community thus established would be maintained, and that was a factor making for moral health which could not be overlooked.
When Fogg had shown this man about the valley he introduced him to Justin, and later talked with Justin about him.
“I’ve listened to him,” he said, “and his proposition strikes me favorably. He wants to buy canal and dam, land and everything, and he offers a good price. If we accept, he will cut the tunnel through the ridge to the Warrior River and bring that water in here to irrigate the valley, and he will bring on his colony from the East. As soon as Davison is able to talk about it, I’ll put the matter before him. I think it would mean big money to us, if we sell a part of the land, enough for them to settle their colony on; and sell out to them, too, our interests in the irrigation company. They’re in shape to cut that tunnel to the Warrior and put in a good dam. When the thing has been developed as they propose to develop it, every acre in this valley will be worth ten times what it is now. So, you see my point. They’ll cut the tunnel, develop and settle the country, and thus make the land we shall still hold worth a good deal more than the whole of it is worth today, counting cattle and everything else in. But to induce them to take up this enterprise we’ve got to sell them our stock in the canal company and enough land to make it worth their while. If we don’t, there are other valleys in the state, and they’ll go elsewhere and do what they think of doing here.”
Fogg was enthusiastic. This new plan offered greater profit than anything that had yet been brought to his consideration. It built a new dream-world in Justin’s mind. In this dream-world the vision of Peter Wingate took actual form, and he saw the desert burst into bloom and fruitage.
At another time when Fogg came down there came with him a cattleman who desired to purchase the herd that grazed on the mesa above Paradise Valley and watered where the fenced chute opened upon the water-holes. It was still a considerable herd, and troublesome near the irrigated farms. Its grazing range lay on the now contracted area that stretched round to the southward of the valley and extended to and beyond the Black Cañon. The fence by the Black Cañon had been ordered down by the government agents, and the herd was for sale.