Fight for Powder Valley! Page 9

  He took his time about shaving and breakfast because he knew city men seldom reached their offices before eight o’clock, and it was a few minutes after that hour when he strolled up Seventeenth Street to tie Exchange Building whose four stories towered two above those of its neighbors.

  The office of the Colorado Western Land and Development Company was on the second floor. Pat trusted himself in the open grillwork elevator to take him up. He entered a small, plainly furnished outer office with a row of straight wooden chairs lined up against the wall.

  A girl smiled at him from behind a wooden partition. He took off his Stetson and told her he wanted to see Mr. Judson Biloff.

  The girl told him Mr. Biloff had not yet arrived, and would he mind waiting. Pat politely assured her he didn’t mind at all.

  As he turned back to a chair he saw a large brightly colored lithograph on the wall. He walked over and studied it with his hands on his hips. In huge block letters at the bottom, he read, POWDER VALLEY PROJECT.

  It took him a long time to make head or tail of it. It looked like no portion of Powder Valley he had ever seen. There was a large neatly blocked-out city labeled Dutch Springs, with large buildings that were marked “Courthouse,” “Church,” etc. A wavy line of green seemed to mark the course of Powder Creek, and the area on each side was laid out in squares and rectangles of varying sizes. Many of the plots were marked in bold lettering, “SOLD.”

  The girl came around her partition to Pat’s side as he stood before the lithograph. She asked brightly, “Are you interested in purchasing a nice irrigated farm?”

  Pat shuddered but did not look at her. He asked, “You folks got this for sale?”

  “All the farms that aren’t marked ‘Sold.’ But they’re going fast. It’s a wonderful investment.”

  Pat said, “It looks mighty pretty, ma’am. Good farmin’ country, I reckon?”

  “It’s an earthly paradise. The richest land in the West. Why, they don’t even have to plow the ground. Just go out and scatter seeds and rake them in. It will grow anything.” She spoke in a sing-song that showed the words had been memorized.

  Pat frowned. “I know that part of the country pretty good. Never knew it was all fixed up this pretty.”

  “The project isn’t quite completed,” she told him glibly. “That’s not an actual photograph, but an artist’s conception of the way the desert valley will flower when the irrigation is in.”

  Pat said mildly, “I reckon that artist feller had a heap of imagination,” and turned away.

  The girl hesitated, biting her lips. Sometimes she didn’t understand these tall, soft-voiced Westerners.

  A short, stout man came bustling in the door. He had a round, beaming face and he carried a bulging leather brief case. He wore a flashy plaid suit, a bowler hat tipped back on his head, gray spats and a celluloid collar with a black bow tie almost hidden by three chins.

  He said, “Morning, Gertie. The Chief in yet?”

  “Why, Mr. Schultz. I thought you were still in Kansas.”

  “Not me, cutie. Not old Schultzie.” He tapped his brief case importantly with a pudgy manicured forefinger. “Wait’ll the Chief sees these documents. Have I cleaned up, or have I cleaned up?”

  “Had a good trip, eh?” Gertie retreated demurely behind her partition while Pat looked on and listened with interest.

  “A good trip, did you ask, kiddo? Did I have a good trip, she asks me?” Schultz laughed and winked at Pat. “Why, I had those dry-land Kansas hicks scrambling for Powder Valley farm-sites like a flock of hungry Dominickers going after a feeding of cracked corn. It’s Westward Ho from Kansas, that’s what it is.”

  “You’d better go in Mr. Biloff’s private office and wait for him,” Gertie suggested. “He’ll be down soon.”

  Pat sat stiffly in one of the straight chairs and rolled a cigarette while the land salesman went through a wooden door marked PRIVATE.

  He thumbed a match and put fire to the crimped end of the brown paper, dragged smoke into his lungs and it seemed to him it was the first clean breath he had tasted since entering the office.

  The outer door opened again and this time a tall man strode in. He had a thin, stern face; with a close-cropped black mustache across his upper lip. He carried a black walking stick which he tapped on the floor as he passed Pat without looking at him. Two gold teeth showed under his mustache when he said, “Good morning,” to Gertie.

  She said, “Good morning, Mr. Biloff. Mr. Schultz is waiting in your office.”

  “Schultz, eh?” Judson Biloff opened the door and went in.

  Pat discovered that he was breathing deeply, and that his fingers had crushed the limp cigarette out. He was sure the short hairs at the back of his neck had risen when Biloff went through the room.

  Gertie said brightly, “That was Mr. Biloff, our president. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until he finishes his conference with Mr. Schultz.”

  Pat stood up slowly. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it out with the toe of his boot. He said gravely, “I reckon I don’t feel like waitin’, ma’am. I’ve come a long way to see him.”

  “But I’m quite sure he won’t want to be disturbed.”

  “An’ I am quite sure he’s going to be whether he wants it that way or not.”

  She jumped up, dismayed by his manner. “Give me your name and I’ll see.”

  “Pat Stevens … from Powder Valley.”

  She said, “Oh!” and hesitated, then compressed her lips and hurried into the private office. She came back, closing the door firmly behind her.

  She shook her head at Pat. “I’m afraid it won’t be any use for you to wait. Mr. Biloff will be too busy all day to see anyone.”

  Pat said, “He’ll see me.” He started for the door.

  Gertie pressed back against the partition to get out of his way. Pat jerked the door open and walked in, the high heels of his boots thudding loudly on the floor.

  10

  Judson Biloff and Schultz were seated on opposite sides of a wide flat-topped desk. Schultz had his brief case open beside him and was spreading legal documents out before Biloff.

  The president of the Colorado Western Land and Development Company was seated in a swivel chair thoughtfully fingering a long cigar. He drew his dark brows together angrily when the man from Powder Valley strode into his private office. He snapped, “I told my secretary I wasn’t to be disturbed,” biting off the words with his thin lips working like the jaws of a steel trap.

  Pat Stevens said, “That’s too damn bad, Mr. Biloff. I’m just a cowman without no bringings-up an’ you’ll have to excuse my rudeness.” He walked forward slowly, his bootheels sinking into the deep pile of the office carpet.

  Pat’s soft tone did not deceive the land company president. Long experience in dealing with the big-hatted and booted men of the range had taught him they were most dangerous when apparently the mildest. He rocked back in his swivel chair and said placatingly:

  “Well, well. Mr. Stevens, isn’t it? I believe we’ve met.”

  “Yeh. In Powder Valley.”

  “Quite so. Meet my right-hand man, Mr. Stevens. Mr. Schultz is just back from Kansas with a splendid report of progress there.”

  Pat wasted a brief nod on Schultz. “I reckon you sold Mr. Hartsell his place?”

  “Hartsell?” Schultz frowned. “There have been so many …”

  Pat said, “No matter.” He turned his attention back to Biloff. “I came to Denver to tell you some things.”

  “No doubt you ranchers are greatly pleased with the progress we’re making. Mr. Culver, my engineer in charge, reports that excavations for the dam are already beginning. Most gratifying.”

  Pat planted his feet wide apart in the soft carpet by the side of the financier’s desk. He rumbled, “Is that all Culver reports? Nothin’ about the way we feel in the Valley?”

  “There was some nonsense about local opposition in the beginning,” Biloff admitted. “But Culve
r’s later reports indicate all that has disappeared.”

  Pat said, “His reports lie.” He hesitated a moment, then explained, “We’ll never see Powder Creek dammed, Biloff. It’ll ruin the valley for cattle. You know that. You knew it when you tricked us into selling our land.”

  Biloff smiled thinly. “That’s a childish attitude to adopt. You few ranchers can’t stand in the way of modern progress. The day of the huge cattle domains is ended. You’ve got to realize …”

  “Powder Creek will never be dammed,” Pat repeated with emphasis.

  The smile went away from Biloff’s lips and they curled back to show his two gold teeth. “I’m afraid that’s not for you to decide, Mr. Stevens. We have a perfect legal right to develop our property as we see fit.”

  “Property you stole from us.”

  “Property to which we have a legal title,” Biloff corrected him.

  “But you know how you got it. By lying. By telling each one of us you wanted his one or two sections for raising blooded hawses. When you was buying that land you never once mentioned it was for a land company.”

  “A man may do what he wishes with his own property,” said Biloff. “I changed my mind about raising blooded stock after realizing the tremendous potentialities in the valley.”

  “You planned it from the beginning,” Pat charged angrily. “You meant to bring in farmers all the time you were tricking us.”

  Biloff shrugged his shoulders scornfully. “Isn’t that beside the point … if there is any point in this discussion.”

  Pat drew in a deep breath. He reached in his pocket for cigarette papers and sack of tobacco. “We’ll skip that part of it,” he agreed. “We’ll say you got a legal right to build the dam and sell the land out to farmers. That don’t mean you can do it.”

  “What’s to prevent us?”

  “There’s still guns in Powder Valley … an’ men to use them.” Pat’s drawl was more pronounced. His gray eyes were cold and hard.

  “That’s utter nonsense,” Biloff declared. “It’s practically a threat of rebellion.”

  “I reckon it is.” Pat had his cigarette made. He cupped his hands over a lighted match and drew smoke into his lungs.

  “But that’s preposterous. No one group of men can set themselves up to thwart the processes of constituted authority.”

  “Them are big words, Mister. I ain’t sure I know what all of them mean. But I’m right sure you know what I mean.”

  “You can’t come here with threats or coercion,” Biloff snapped.

  “I ain’t. I’m telling you facts. There’ll never be a dam across Powder Creek. There’ll never be irrigation ditches carrying our water. You’re lying to those farmers when you promise them those things.”

  “Be careful of your words,” said Biloff.

  Pat laughed softly. It wasn’t a pleasant sound in the luxurious office. “I stopped twenty armed men that were ridin’ to burn out the first settler last night, Biloff. A Kansas farmer with a wife an’ three kids. He came to Powder Valley expectin’ to raise a crop to feed those kids on. You know it can’t be done. You know the early frost’ll nip anything he plants. If they don’t get driven out … they’ll starve out. It’ll be murder either way … an’ you’ll be the murderer.”

  A sneer distorted Judson Biloff’s saturnine face. “What happens to them after they get there is not my responsibility.”

  “You mean you don’t care what happens to ’em?”

  “I mean I’m not responsible.” Biloff pounded the desk with his clenched fist.

  In a wondering tone, Pat said, “You know they can’t farm that land. You’ve known it all along.”

  “I’m not a farmer.”

  “You are lower than a snake’s belly, Biloff,” said Pat. “Good God! I thought maybe if I came here and told you how it was you’d stop sellin’ the land to farmers. But I ain’t telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  “Nothing you have to say interests me, Stevens. You’ve taken up quite enough of my time. Get out.”

  Pat did not move. His eyes were very bright. He said, “Why, no. I’m stayin’. But I reckon you’re right. I’ve plumb talked enough.” He leaned forward and slapped the financier with such force that Biloff floundered backward in his swivel chair, went to the floor in an undignified heap.

  Pat strode around the desk, gritting his teeth. He said, “That’s a beginnin’, Biloff. Just a sample.” He leaned over and grabbed the president’s thin shoulder, dragged him to his feet. He didn’t notice Schultz running out the door behind him.

  Pat hit him in the face with his doubled fist, holding him aloft like a limp doll. “This is something I’ve been hankerin’ to do for a long time,” he said happily. He smashed his fist into Biloff’s face again.

  The president tried to scream for help. Pat slapped him across the mouth as he got it open. “There’s just the two of us,” Pat told him. “You an’ me to settle this my way.”

  But he was mistaken. The door burst open under the rush of two blue-uniformed policemen followed by the panting and perspiring Mr. Schultz.

  Pat let go of Biloff with a grunt of disgust as the police ran up and caught hold of each arm. “Mighta known it’d be like this in the city …”

  “Hold that man, officers. Handcuff him,” Biloff shouted from the floor. “He’s a dangerous maniac.”

  Pat stood quietly in the grip of the city policemen. He laughed at Biloff who staggered to his feet holding a handkerchief to his bruised and bleeding face. “It was worth whatever the fine’ll be,” he asserted cheerfully. “An’ I’m going to have fun tellin’ the judge just why I took a poke at you.”

  “Come along quietly,” one of the policemen ordered gruffly. “You’re not riding the range in Denver.”

  “Wait a minute, officers.” Biloff spoke with a painful grimace that tried to be a reassuring smile. “I guess there’s no need to arrest that man. Just … er … a personal quarrel. Take him outside and we’ll drop the matter.”

  “You mean that, Mister? After the way he beat you up?”

  “It’s really nothing. Ha-ha. Nothing that nature can’t patch up. I prefer not to have him prosecuted.”

  “Just as you say, Mister. If you won’t swear out a warrant, we’ll have to turn him loose I reckon. Mighty funny business, though.”

  Pat let them lead him out the outer office and down the stairs. When they reached the street one of the officers advised him in a kindly tone, “Better get out of town before Mr. Biloff changes his mind. That’d cost you ten dollars and costs in police court.”

  Pat said, “It would be worth it.”

  They let him go with a disapproving shake of their heads against the procedure, and Pat strode back to the Oxford Hotel where he learned that the next southbound train left the depot at five o’clock.

  He was all in after a sleepless night, and the reaction from his burst of anger at Biloff had left him feeling weak and disgusted with himself. His trip to the city had accomplished absolutely nothing. He had made a fool of himself, and that was about all. His only desire was to get out of town and back to Powder Valley where he belonged.

  He remembered he had paid for a room in the hotel, so he went up to lie down, leaving word at the desk that he should be called at four-thirty if he happened to drop off to sleep.

  He didn’t think he would. He never slept in the daytime. But there was something soporific in the city sounds that drifted up from the street as he tossed restlessly on the bed. He kept slipping into the clutches of uneasy slumber and then coming back to wakefulness with a start—until suddenly he was recalled to consciousness by a heavy pounding on the door of his room.

  He sat up and stared about him for a moment without being able to remember where he was. The knocking continued. Things came back to him with a rush and he went to the door and opened it.

  A bell-boy stood outside, and to Pat’s great surprise informed him it was four-thirty. It seemed to Pat he hadn’t slept more than fiv
e minutes at any one stretch.

  He grabbed his hat and hurried out with the haste of a man unused to city ways and afraid of missing his train.

  He was striding through the lobby toward the Seventeenth Street entrance when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

  Pat swung around and looked into the face of a complete stranger. The man was a head shorter than he, heavy-set, wearing city clothes and aggressively chewing the butt of a cigar. He had keen eyes and a stolid, square chin. He said, “Mr. Stevens, I believe,” before Pat could say anything.

  The rancher nodded. “Yep. I’m Stevens.”

  “From Powder Valley?” The stranger kept his hand on Pat’s shoulder. Another, smaller man, was sidling up beside him.

  Pat said, “What the hell is this? Sure, I’m Pat Stevens from Powder Valley.”

  “That’s all we want to know,” the heavy-set man growled. “Come along with us.” His thick fingers tightened on Pat’s shoulder.

  Anger blazed in Pat’s eyes. He put the flat of his palm against the man’s chest and shoved, said between his teeth, “I’m catching a train.”

  The man didn’t budge. People in the lobby were beginning to collect, staring at the scene curiously. The big man said to his smaller companion, “Put the bracelets on him, Malloy,” and added to Pat, “We’re the police.” With his free hand he flipped back the lapel of his coat to let Pat see his badge.

  Pat froze in his tracks. The little man was unobtrusively getting a pair of shiny handcuffs from his hip pocket. Pat said, “The police? But … I thought …”

  “You thought you’d get away with it? Nope. They want to talk to you at headquarters.”

  Malloy snapped the handcuffs on Pat’s wrists. He said, “You’ll be all right, fella, if you got an alibi for this afternoon.” They got on each side of him and started for the door.

  “An alibi?”

  “Sure. You know. If you can prove where you were while Mr. Judson Biloff was getting kidnaped an’ maybe murdered.”

  “Kidnaped? Murdered?” Pat choked over the words.