Devitt moved swiftly. Immediately he got in touch with Frank Chase, in Washington. Chase set about getting a timber grant for Devitt, but Jud had no plans to await due process of law or the long process of cutting Washington red tape. He had proceeded to move into the area with his equipment, and now he was going to log off Deep Creek; and if his grant did not go through—well, who was to do what? Rolling his cigar in his lips, he considered the situation anew. What had he forgotten? Chase would handle the Washington end. The R&R would refuse cars for Bell’s cattle shipment, and Wheeler would hold back on future loans. It took money to fight a war, and through Wheeler he knew Bell’s financial position down to the last dollar.
Clay Bell, riding his palouse toward Piety Mountain, had come to the same conclusion at which Devitt had arrived. He was going to need money.
He studied the forest with a more attentive eye. It was a stand of mingled fir and ponderosa pine, and Bell could appreciate Devitt’s problem. Yet these mountains, once stripped, would be ruined forever as range. The thin topsoil would wash away, the hills would become bare, and this island of forest would be gone.
Turning the palouse, he drifted down through the trees and into a succession of grassy meadows. Already the cattle from the flats had begun to scatter out, walking and feeding in the rich grass of the well-watered uplands.
Wind stirred the tall grass, and in the distance, above the rough shoulder of Piety Mountain, an eagle soared. It was very still. His horse dipped his head and caught up a mouthful of grass. On the far slope the trim columns of the fir made a row of bars against any higher advance, a wall of splendid trees, uniform in size as if cast from a mold.
It troubled him that he knew so little of that part of the Deep Creek range which lay beyond the creek and west of The Notch. In the business of running cattle and building a ranch there had been little time for exploration. So far as he knew, it was rough and heavily forested country into which there was neither opening nor outlet except from across the creek on his own range.
Bell drew up on a little knoll, almost bare of trees. From his vantage point he could look over the tree tops and see much of what lay within the circle of mountains.
On his left and just ahead loomed the great mass of Piety Mountain, and highest point in many miles. Far away to the west lay the serrated ridge that formed the far wall of the basin, whose only opening was The Notch. For a long time he studied that range, and studied the tree tops of the area across the creek as if to read what lay beneath them.
A little snow lingered in the cracks and hollows of the mountain, and the wind that came down from the ranges was cool. It was a good country, a man’s country. At the thought of it lying waste and barren, stripped of those magnificent trees, he felt a sharp pang. This was virgin timber, untouched by man, but scarred in places by fires created by lightning.
Since he had taken over the range he had established a fire watch on Piety, and a dozen times in the past few years all hands had come out to fight fire. Usually they had managed to put out blazes with a quick rush of riders and some hot, fast work. But once they had fought fire for days, and he had hired extra men from the town to help put out the blaze.
He rode on now, taking the long trail that led up the mountain, sometimes under the trees, occasionally out on the open side of the mountain. Once he saw a mountain lion, and a dozen times he came upon deer trails. Bill Coffin was on duty atop Piety when he rode up to the shelter on the peak.
“Rider comin’,” Coffin said. “Looks like a woman.”
He was a lean, well set-up young man with blond hair and a thoughtful face. A quiet man, but tough and capable.
Coffin offered his glasses and Clay studied the rider with interest. The morning air was clear and the sun bright, but along the trail from town there were occasional clumps of smoke trees and desert willow that obscured the rider for minutes at a time. Finally, as she emerged from behind a sandhill, he made her out. It was Colleen Riley.
There was a steep trail, useful only to a skilled rider on a good mountain horse, that led off Piety on the town side. He handed the glasses back to Coffin. “I’m going down there.”
He started his horse, then turned in the saddle. “Devitt will probably start moving today.”
The sun was warm and he tipped his hat lower over his face. He went swiftly down the dangerous switchback trail, sliding the last few feet, then breaking into a canter through the cat-claw and mesquite. He came out on the trail just as Colleen appeared, not twenty yards away.
“Hello, cowboy!” she called gaily. “Riding somewhere?”
“To meet you.” He gestured toward Piety. “Saw you coming.”
She glanced toward the peak, then looked back at him, her eyes sober. He looked fit and handsome this morning, a lean, powerful man who filled out his gray wool shirt as a man should.
“We’ve been expecting visitors,” he added, “and did not want to seem lacking in hospitality.”
“Clay”—she used his first name without thinking—”you mustn’t have trouble with Jud. He’s a hard man—too hard sometimes. Why don’t you sell out to him?”
“He hasn’t asked me. If he did, I wouldn’t sell. This is my home, and I like it here. I’m not going to tuck in my tail and run at the first sign of trouble. And I’ve had trouble before.”
Her eyes followed the trail toward the buildings in the mouth of the Gap. “You’ve a lovely view.”
He swung his horse into the trail and they rode along. “It was the view I liked as much as the grass,” he admitted. “I like space out in front of me.”
Colleen drew up suddenly. “Why! Why, the trail goes right through your gates!”
Clay Bell dug out the makings and began to build a smoke, offering no comment.
She turned on him. “Jud will have a lot of trouble getting his machinery through those gates, won’t he?”
Bell looked up at her, grinning slyly. “Yes, ma’am, I sort of think so.”
“You won’t let him?”
“That’s right.”
“But you don’t own the timberland!”
“Neither does Jud. But I’ve a prior right of use. I’ve even worked to improve it, and to prevent fires. He wants to destroy all we’ve saved.”
She turned in the saddle. “But you don’t understand! The ties are for a railroad, and railroads build a country.”
“So does beef.”
For the first time she began to see the situation in its true light. She had known Jud Devitt three years and had become accustomed to seeing him ride roughshod over obstacles. Looking suddenly at Clay Bell, she had a sudden realization he presented a different sort of obstacle. One that might not be so easy to ride over.
“There’ll be trouble,” she said soberly. “Serious trouble.”
“Colleen”—he gestured at the ranch, then down at the bottom lands—”this wasn’t easy to build. Without the water and grass from the high range, we can’t operate here. I’d be broke. I’d be through.
“I fought Indians and rustlers when I first came in here. Two of my first bunch of hands are buried here. You think I’m going to give up just because Jud Devitt wants to log off my land?”
They rode on and Hank Rooney opened the gate for them, glancing briefly at Colleen.
“Won’t you come in?” Clay said. He turned without waiting for her reply. “Hank, tell that cook to rustle us some coffee. We’ll be on the porch.”
When they were seated she looked around with excited interest. The ride and the early air had brought color to her cheeks. He watched her with appreciation. There was depth to her, and a quickness of mind that he liked. Young as she was, she was no child. She was a woman with all a woman’s instincts. He felt a vague uneasiness stir within him. She was the first woman who had ever sat on this porch, looked out over this view.
“It’s strange to actually be out West,” she said suddenly. “My uncle used to tell us stories about Bill Longley and John Wesley Hardin. Were there actually men like that?”
“Some still around.”
“Do you know Stag Harvey and Jack Kilburn? Are they really dangerous men?”
He looked around at her. “Where did you see them?”