Blake’s pale eyes twinkled. “So I’m a hero. Will you dynamite my pedestal if I figure out a way to water your range?”
She flashed him a troubled glance, but rallied for a quick rejoinder: “Even you can’t pump the water out of Deep Cañon, and Plum Creek is only a trickle most of the year.”
“I see you want me to make my report as dry as I can write it,” he bantered.
“No,” she replied, suddenly serious. “We wish the exact truth, though we hope you’ll find it dry.”
“Then you are to blame if the matter does not figure out your way,” he warned her. “You’ve given me a problem. If there is any possible way for me to irrigate your mesa, I am bound to try my best to work it out. Hadn’t you better head me off before I start in? At present I haven’t the remotest desire to do this except to comply with your wishes.” 155
“It’s as I told Daddy,” she said. “If there really is a way, the sooner we know it the better. It is the uncertainty that is bothering Daddy. If your report is for us, all well and good; if against us, he will stand up and fight and forget about worrying.”
“Fight?” asked Blake.
“Fight the project, fight against the formation of any irrigation district. He owns five sections. The reservoir might have to be on his patented land. He’d fight fair and square and hard––to the last ditch!”
“Isn’t that a Dutchman’s saying?” asked Blake humorously.
The girl’s tense face relaxed, and she burst out in a ringing laugh. She shifted the conversation to less serious subjects, and they cantered along together, laughing and chatting like old friends.