Guardians of the Sage Read Online Free Page A

him the cattle-king as he journeyed up and down the San Joaquin, his note-book in his pocket. It was his own domain; his by right of conquest.
    â€œOn March 16th, and again a week later, seated in a rowboat, we travelled back and forth across the area herein described,” two of his men made sworn affidavit to the U. S. Land Office in an action looking toward the acquiring of still more land. The two men were in the rowboat, as they testified; but they failed to state that the rowboat had been lashed to a wagon and that a team of horses had drawn them over the land in question. It was typical of Henry Stall.
    With his chain-store mind and mania for expansion, it was inevitable that he should invade Nevada and later, Oregon. In this semi-desert country there was an abundance of range, but precious little water. Immediately, he began to prospect for it, filing on every creek and spring he found unused, making them his own by the simple expedient of proving his priority and a real or fancied use of the waters in question. Once established, those rights were his forever, and he foresaw that through them he would dominate this country sooner or later even as he did the San Joaquin.
    That thought had been in his mind the August day he first rode into Squaw Valley. Other than the reservation, it was all uninhabited public domain, open to entry. With dummy entrymen he could have homesteaded most of it, or bought it in for the proverbial song. He was not minded to do either, for without the reservation there was not enough good range in sight to interest him. It satisfied him to buy a few scattered acres and establish what water rights he could.
    In the twelve years that had intervened, one small outfit after another had moved into the valley, using water that he considered his. He made no protest, willing to bide his time until such a day as this arrived. He knew the passing years had not outlawed his rights—not with the legal talent he could send to the firing line. Those old water rights were an ace in the hole now.
    If he rode into Wild Horse outwardly his usual phlegmatic self, he was aware of the hostile glances levelled at him. It was no more than he expected. In the crowd he recognized Dan Crockett, Joe Gault and one or two others.
    â€œI don’t want to be hard on these Squaw Valley men,” he said to himself. “If I get the reservation, I’ll buy them out at a fair price.” His idea of a fair price, of course. “But they can’t expect to use my water if they band together and try to freeze me out.”
    He rode ahead with Letty and Judd. A dozen South Fork men followed close behind.
    â€œReb’s here already,” Judd informed him as they neared the court-house. “Over there in front of the sheriff’s office.”
    â€œSo I see.” The old man glanced at his watch. It was five minutes to twelve. “I’m going up and talk to Montana before the sale starts. You tell Mr. Russell I don’t want any trouble if it can be avoided.
    Letty sighed wearily as she slipped from her saddle. The long, gruelling ride had told on her more than on her father.
    â€œYou better stay here with Mr. Case,” he advised.
    â€œNo, I’ll go up with you,” she insisted. “It won’t look so warlike if I go along.”
    Montana expected the old man to come up. He was surprised to find Letty with him. It was the first time he had seen her in more than a year—a period in which he had tried unsuccessfully to keep memory of her out of his thoughts.
    His belated “Good-morning,” won no response from old Henry. Letty nodded, her manner cool and aloof and in marked contrast to the warm friendliness of the days when he had been a Bar S man.
    It hurt; but he told himself he could expect nothing else under the circumstances. She refused the chair he offered her.
    â€œI thought you were going to keep me posted about this matter,” old Slick-ear queried