The rancher paused, took a long draw on his pipe, and his eyes glowed with the light of old recollections.
“Well, as I was sayin’,” he continued presently, “folks got to callin’ the stream the Y.D., after me. That’s what you get for bein’ first on the ground—a monument for ever an ever. This bein’ the main stream got the name proper, an’ the other branch bein’ smallest an’ running kind o’ south nat’rally got called the South Y.D. I run stock in both valleys when I was at The Forks, but not much since I came down here. Well, there’s maybe a thousand tons o’ hay over in the South Y.D., an’ you boys better trail over there to-morrow an’ pitch into it—that is, if you’re satisfied with the price I’m payin’ you.”
“The price is all right,” said Transley, “and we’ll hit the trail at sun-up. There’ll be no trouble—no confliction of interests, I mean?”
“Whose interests?” demanded the rancher, beligerently. “Ain’t I the father of the Y.D? Ain’t the whole valley named for me? When it comes to interests—”
“Of course,” Transley agreed, “but I just wanted to know how things stood in case we ran up against something. It’s not like the old days, when a rancher would rather lose twenty-five per cent. of his stock over winter than bother putting up hay. Hay land is getting to be worth money, and I just want to know where we stand.”
“Quite proper,” said Y.D., “quite proper. An’ now the matter’s under discussion, I’ll jus’ show you my hand. There’s a fellow named Landson down the valley of the South Y.D. that’s been flirtin’ with that hay meadow for years, but he ain’t got no claim to it. I was first on the ground an’ I cut it whenever I feel like it an’ I’m goin’ to go on cuttin’ it. If anybody comes out raisin’ trouble, you just shoo ‘em off, an’ go on cuttin’ that hay, spite o’ hell an’ high water. Y.D.‘ll stand behind you.”
“Thanks,” said Transley. “That’s what I wanted to know.”
CHAPTER II
The rancher had ridden into the Canadian plains country from below “the line” long before barbed wire had become a menace in cattle-land. From Pincher Creek to Maple Creek, and far beyond, the plains lay unbroken save by the deep canyons where, through the process of ages, mountain streams had worn their beds down to gravel bottoms, and by the occasional trail which wandered through the wilderness like some thousand-mile lariat carelessly dropped from the hand of the Master Plainsman. Here and there, where the cutbanks of the river Canyons widened out into sloping valleys, affording possible access to the deep-lying streams, some ranchman had established his headquarters, and his red-roofed, whitewashed buildings flashed back the hot rays which fell from an opalescent heaven. At some of the more important fords trading posts had come into being, whither the ranchmen journeyed twice a year for groceries, clothing, kerosene, and other liquids handled as surreptitiously as the vigilance of the Mounted Police might suggest. The virgin prairie, with her strange, subtle facility for entangling the hearts of men, lay undefiled by the mercenary plowshare; unprostituted by the commercialism of the days that were to be.