Stands a Calder Man (Calder Saga 2)

“That’s the beauty of it.” A grin spread his mouth wide. “Think of how many times a man can sell the same chunk of land!”

“It don’t sound right to me.” Nate shook his head.

“It’s no different than horse-trading,” Doyle declared. “If the buyer can’t see for himself that the horse is spavined, then he deserves what he gets.”

It was apparent that Doyle considered the comparison an adequate justification. Webb also realized that Doyle had covered every angle. This wasn’t just idle talk to be bandied around the table and forgotten. It was going to be followed through.

“What do you say about all this, Webb?” Nate turned to him, seeking vocal support

for his opposition.

“I say it’s a damned good thing old Tom Pettit is dead and in his grave.” There was a certain stiffness in his movements as he took a quick swallow of whiskey.

Doyle reddened slightly, his hazel eyes narrowing. “My pa was just like yours is, Webb. All he knew was cattle and that ranch. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t any world outside the boundaries of his range. That’s old-time thinking. He put nearly thirty years of his life into that ranch. When he died, he left me a bunch of cattle, but no money-—not a dime after thirty years. That’s what you’re going to get, Webb—cattle and all the headaches that go with them. I’m not going to waste my life the way my pa did.”

“A man’s gotta do what he thinks is right,” Webb murmured, but Doyle’s words had made him uneasy. This time it had nothing to do with being the son of Chase Benteen Calder and the future owner of the Triple C. It was something else that gnawed at him. Some new thought that hadn’t occurred to him before.

“Your pa left you a good piece of ranchland,” Nate reminded him.

“And I’m going to take that land and turn it into money,” Doyle stated, less defensive. “I’ve been talking to Harve Wessel about maybe setting up a partnership. Have you met him yet?” He shot a glance at Webb.

“I’ve only seen him.”

“That guy could sell beaded moccasins to reservation Indians,” he declared with a grin. “We’ve been considering buying up some land for speculation. Since his heart attack last winter, Evan Banks is talking about selling the old Ten Bar spread. Harve is sure we can convince the bank to loan us the money to buy it.”

“Instead of being cattle-poor, you’re going to be land-poor,” Webb warned.

“I’ll be land-rich,” he corrected and let his glance swing back to Webb. “If your pa was smart, he’d sell off at least some of his land. The days of the big cattle ranches are over. He’d better be thinking about trimming down the size of the Triple C, or he’ll find himself losing it all.”

More than an hour went by before Webb and Nate took their leave of Doyle and left the saloon to get a bite to eat. They paused outside the door, studying the one-street town. Nate hitched his pants higher on his hips and darted a squinting glance at his friend.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Webb didn’t have to ask what he meant. “I think Doyle is going to do it. He’s going to sell off the TeePee.”

The knowledge didn’t set well with either of them. Times change, and both men had seen a lot of change. More was coming, it seemed, and they didn’t like the looks of it.

Surrounded by the rolling plains of eastern Montana, the immigrants listened wide-eyed to the man in the white suit. Tall stalks of grass rubbed their heads against his knees. Harve Wessel had carefully chosen the place for his lecture on the dryland method of wheat farming. As far as the eye could see in any direction, there was virgin grassland, government land free for the taking. Time and the elements had carved a cutbank into the side of a small rise in the land, giving him a naturally elevated platform from which to speak.

With the confidence of a salesman convinced his product was sold, he invited questions. “Is there anything you don’t understand about the dryland method?”

Everyone looked around to see if anyone else was going to speak. Stefan Reisner made a negative shake of his head when the locater Harve Wessel looked squarely at him. He was in the front row of the immigrants, with Lillian standing by his side, her head tipped slightly back to view the locater.

“Now, for those of you who are short of funds”—which was virtually all of them, as Wessel knew—“I can help you obtain a loan from our new bank—your new bank—so you can buy seed and the equipment you need. The interest is ten percent, but the land is free.” he emphasized. “Any questions?”

“What will we do about a place to live?” someone asked.

“Wagons or tents will get you through the summer until you sell your first crop. There’s going to be a lumberyard in Blue Moon where you can buy wood to throw you up a place. Borrow money from the bank for that, if you don’t want to wait. Or”—he paused—“you can build you a sod house out of all this ‘prairie marble.’”

A woman spoke up. “What will we use for fuel to cook with and to heat our homes in the winter? There aren’t any trees around here.” “I’m glad you asked that,” he stated and looked down at Lillian Reisner. “Young lady, hand me a chunk of that black rock by your feet.”

There were any number of shiny black rocks at her feet, broken from the wide seam showing in the exposed earth of the cutbank. Bending, Lillian picked up a large, rough-edged chunk and handed it to him. A curious frown narrowed her eyes because the rock had looked just like coal.

“Now, I’ve been telling you people what treasures you can find in this land. This is one of them.” Harve Wessel held up the piece of black rock for all to see. “It’s coal. It’s a few feet underground just about anywhere you want to look. And in places, like here”—he pointed to the coal seam in the cutbank—“it’s at the surface. There’s your fuel!”

Slowly Lillian swung her attention to Stefan. She had no more doubt about the wisdom of coming to Montana. It was only a matter of finding their piece of land.

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