Stands a Calder Man (Calder Saga 2)

Webb didn’t like the idea any more than the next cowboy, but he’d become more philosophical about it. In his father’s time, this country had been the last area of free range for the cattleman. Now it was the last area of free land for the farmer. It had always been so in the settling of the western lands. First came the trapper, then the rancher, and finally the farmer. No amount of resistance by the established order had ever changed the outcome. The invasion of the plow had begun.

With that historical perspective, he regarded his father’s continuing efforts through his political connections to halt or check the flow of homesteaders pouring into the area as both futile and unrealistic. Five years ago, his father had forecasted the coming of the farmers, and Webb couldn’t understand why he was fighting a war that was already lost.

As the mouse-colored horse topped the gentle slope of a hill, its head came up, its ears pricking with sudden interest at some object on the other side of the fence, outside the Triple C boundaries. Webb felt the horse’s sides expand to whicker a greeting to the team of draft horses in the wide hollow of the adjoining section of land. They were leaving a brown wake behind them, a straight swath through the grass.

It was strictly reflex that caused Webb to rein his horse to a stop. The rattle of harness chains came clearly across the silence of the rolling plains. Coming into view behind the muscled haunches of the draft team Webb saw, first, the man driving them, then the plow, a descendant of the famed sod-buster that had tamed the prairies of the Midwest. The old iron plow of early settlers couldn’t cut through the densely matted sod that was baked rock-hard by summer heat and frozen solid by winter’s cold until a man named John Deere invented a plow with a revolving blade and a steel moldboard that was able to cut the sod and turn it over.

There were refinements, but the principle was the same in the modern version of the implement Webb saw. He relaxed the checking pressure on the bit and let the gray dun start down the slope to the hollow where the homesteader was plowing up the virgin sod. The working team were too busy to respond to the cow pony’s whinnied greeting except to swing bobbing heads in its direction.

The man at the reins wore suspenders to hold up his loose-fitting trousers. Sweat was leaving wet stains on the front of his shirt, nearly reaching the patches under his arms. The small-billed cap on his head shaded little of his sun-reddened and whiskerless face.

When Webb noticed the homesteader’s cheeks were smooth-shaven, he realized he had thought the man might be the father of the girl he’d met at the train station. But the man was not only beardless, he was also younger, about Webb’s age. Still, his gaze swept past the dryland farmer and his horse-drawn plow to follow the trail of newly turned earth until he found its starting point.

About a quarter of a mile from the fenceline, the weathered boards of a wagon nearly blended into the tan background of the plains. His eye was caught first by the dull-white slash of a tent roof; then the wagon took shape. Two small children were playing in front of the tent, supervised by an older girl-child. All of them were fair-haired, making it unlikely that they were related to the girl he’d met with dark copper hair. Webb’s gaze came back to the man.

Like his horses, the homesteader was too intent on his work to notice the horse and rider approaching him on the opposite side of the fence. It wasn’t until Webb was nearly level with the horse team that the man saw him. His reaction was to instantly halt the team, his gaze darting warily over the tall rider.

From what Webb had heard in the bunkhouse, the homesteader’s attitude was understandable. The railroads and the small-town businesses had welcomed the immigrants to the area, but the reception from their neighbors—the ranchers and cowboys—had been on the frigid side, varying from icy disdain to blatant hostility.

The mouse-colored horse wanted to stop and become acquainted with the equine newcomers, so Webb let it. The saddle leather groaned as Webb shifted position and pushed his hat to the back of his head. The gelding stretched its neck over the barbed wire to nose at the near horse, as indifferent as its owner to the overture of interest.

“It looks like it’s going to get hotter as the day wears on.” Webb remarked on the weather, since it dictated conditions that affected both rancher and farmer.

An affirmative response was made by the downward movement of the drylander’s chin, but not once did his eyes leave Webb to inspect the skies for himself. Webb turned his glance to the churned-up earth behind the plow.

“Are you planning on sowing this in wheat?” He asked the obvious.

The chin came up again with a defiant thrust. “Yes.”

“Isn’t

it a little late in the year?”

Something flickered across the man’s face. Webb wasn’t sure whether it was doubt or simple concern. It was too quickly replaced by a desperate determination that he would later recognize as a quality common to virtually all the drylanders. For a fleeting second, he let his thoughts run back to the auburn-haired Lillian, glad that her family had been among the early arrivals, because their crop would have time to mature, provided there was rain. This man was gambling there wouldn’t be an early killing frost.

“Mr. Wessel said we had time to plant and harvest.” The drylander’s voice had an accent Webb couldn’t place, but the conviction of belief was unmistakable.

Impatience with the man’s blind faith in this land promoter Wessel thinned the hint of friendliness from Webb’s features, turning them hard. His stony gaze veered to the distant wagon and tent, and the children playing so carefree under the warm sun.

“That your family?” Webb slashed the same narrowed glance at the farmer.

There was worry behind the man’s bristling posture, as if Webb’s reference to his family were somehow threatening, but Webb was wondering how those youngsters would make it if the crop failed, as it probably would with such a late planting, and there was no money to buy food for the winter.

“That’s my Helga and my children,” the man stated.

“Do you have any idea how rough it’s going to be out here for them?” Webb seriously doubted it.

“I have gun.” The drylander returned Webb’s steady look. “If trouble comes to my family, I will use it.”

Although there was no outward change in his expression, Webb was startled by this response. He had been referring to the hardships inherent in this land and its climate. He hadn’t meant to imply any other source of physical harm to the man or his family. Had there been instances of violence or harassment by ranchers or cowboys that he hadn’t heard about?

At this point, it didn’t matter. But what was clear to Webb was how easily it could occur. Lord knew, the bunkhouses had plenty of hot-headed cowboys eager to fight over anything. If they bumped into an equally belligerent drylander, violence of some sort was bound to result.

Webb shifted his hat, bringing the front down on his forehead, while he subjected the man to his narrowed study. “What’s your name?” he demanded.

“Kreuger. Franz Kreuger.” It was issued with a combative pride that silently challenged Webb to make some disparaging remark about his nationality.

“Let me tell you something, Franz Kreuger.” Webb walked the dun horse along the fence until he drew even with the man. “Most of the ranchers around here are old-timers. They’ve shot it out with renegade Indians and rustlers—and sometimes with each other. They know which end the bullet comes out of. When they see a gun, they don’t regard it as a warning. They figure it’s going to get used. My advice to you, Mr. Kreuger, is to give that gun to your wife. You’ll all be safer if you do.”