CHAPTER XIX
One year slipped into another, until five had passed since the birth of Jim's son Hal. The cattle did well and ill by turns, but mostly ill. The trusts were making their iron paws felt by the grasp in which they held the ranchmen—absolutely dictating their terms. A dry season often further augmented the disaster of Jim's ventures. Without repining he fought on, with only great-hearted Bill's advice and confidence to help him through the wearing time.
Green River, which had been the excuse for Carston's ranch, was in low spirits this sizzling summer afternoon. Throughout the long day the alkali plains had crackled under the withering sun, until the entire place lay covered with a heavy powder of dust. Even the straggling scrub-oak and green sage-brush seemed to be only nature's imitation of asbestos, so persistently were they radiating the heat of the past week. The adobe stable glared at the low adobe dwelling opposite. Neither gave evidence of any life within. A decrepit wagon with its tongue lolling out lay like a tired dog before the stable; beside it was heaped the dusty double harness with its primitive mending of rope and buckskin, while near the house a disordered hummock of pack-saddles and camp outfits further increased the disorder of the place. An unsteady bench, holding a tin basin, a dipper, and a bucket of water, and a solitary towel on a nail near by, were the sole tributes to civilization.
Big Bill, whose eyes were accustomed to the place, seemed indifferent to the unspeakable desolation of the ranch. He sat on a log that lay before the door of the hut and was used for social intercourse or wood-splitting. He was intent on braiding strands of buckskin, the ends of which were held by little Hal, who had grown into a winsome little lad and was the pet of all the men and his father's constant companion.
Across the river, towards the west, the same desolation met the eye. Even the sage-brush and scrub-oak seemed to have abandoned life in despair, and the Bad Lands stretched lifeless to the foot-hills of the snow-capped Uinta peaks. Even more poignant than the cruel ugliness of the place was the feeling that the great gaunt bird of failure brooded over the entire ranch.
As Bill clumsily twisted the braid the child eagerly watched him.
"Is it for me, sure, Bill?" he asked, as he slid close to the big fellow.
"Yes, old man," Bill answered, as he stooped to pat the dark head. "This is going to be for you, and there ain't any old cow-puncher can beat Bill making a quirt. No, sirree."
While he talked lightly to the child his mind was busy with unpleasant thoughts. The boys were about to strike for their money. Their wages had been overdue for some time, and the boss, finally driven to the wall by disease among the cattle, had been unable to satisfy them. So far there had been no outbreak, but Bill expected it every moment.
For days Jim had hardly spoken. That there was some important decision about to be made by him, Bill guessed. He sat and played with the child, but in reality this was only a ruse by which he might keep close to the place and await developments. From down the road he could hear the men coming and calling to him, but he gave no sign. He went on knotting the strands, and steadied little Hal's hands when the child grew tired of holding the quirt.