Stands a Calder Man (Calder Saga 2)

Water sloshed against the lids of the barrels as the horse-drawn wagons rattled into town close to noon the next day. The harsh light wasn’t kind to the dusty, weather-beaten buildings. Most of them had been thrown up too quickly, responding to the land boom that had so suddenly stretched Blue Moon’s capacity. Now it looked exhausted, teetering on its shaky foundations and aging fast. One small business was already boarded up, an Out of Business sign painted across its dusty window front. The deterioration was as inevitable as the boom had been, Webb realized, because it had been built on hope instead of the land’s ability to support it.

There weren’t many people in town, but all of them seemed to wear a dazed and vacant look, as if they were in the throes of a terrible nightmare that wouldn’t end. Dust lay over the town in a haze, reddening the eyes and coating teeth with grit. A half-dozen wagons were parked around the well in front of the blacksmith’s, the well that usually supplied water to the drylanders.

The worn and ragged collection of homesteaders blankly watched the two Triple C wagons and their accompanying outriders approaching them. The drought had dried all expression from their features and the grasshoppers had taken the hope out of their eyes. It was purely survival instinct that carried them now.

The arrival of the wagons loaded with barrels of water brought people out of stores. It was as if they smelled it and came out to see the rare commodity. As Webb turned the black gelding into the hitching rail, he noticed the sheriff and Simon Bardolph make their way through the slowly growing crowd to reach him.

“You got my message.” A smile of relief broke across the physician’s weary features as Webb dismounted.

“This was all we could carry on this trip.” They’d run out of barrels. His glance skimmed the dried-out group of homesteaders. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ll have the boys unload the wagons, and you and the sheriff can decide how to divide it up so everybody gets some.”

“The sheriff can do that.” Simon volunteered the man for the job. “How bad is it out your way?”

“We escaped the worst of the ‘hoppers, but this drought is still burning us up,” Webb admitted. “The rivers are running so low you can wade in and pick up all the trout you want.”

“How much longer can it last?” The doctor sighed, not expecting an answer.

Webb turned and signaled to his men to begin unloading the barrels. Sheriff Potter had stepped away and had tiredly lifted his arms to get the drylanders’ attention. “There’s going to be enough water for everybody, so let’s keep this orderly. I want you to form a line—”

A voice from the back of the group broke in and demanded to be heard. “Where did this water come from?”

There was a slight pause before the sheriff resumed his instructions, ignoring the question. “Form a line over here.”

“How do we know this is good water?” The voice insisted on an answer. Webb recognized it before Franz Kreuger forced his way to the front of the group.

“Mr. Calder brought it in from his place,” the sheriff responded with marked patience.

Kreuger spat at the ground and glared his loathing for the source. “Don’t take any of this water,” he warned the others around him. “He has probably poisoned it.”

Webb shook his head, tipping it downward in exasperation and disgust. Beside him, Simon muttered something under his breath and moved away to stand with the sheriff.

“Kreuger, there is nothing wrong with this water,” he snapped.

“Did you give him the poison to put in it?” Kreuger challenged and lifted his hands that had been hanging at his sides. That’s when Webb saw he was carrying a rifle.

“Don’t be ridiculous—” Simon began angrily.

“I want nothing that comes from Calder or his whore—or the physician who treats them!” There was a madness in Kreuger’s eyes as he turned to look at his fellow homesteaders. “Since we came, Calder has wanted to get rid of us. He has tried everything—burning our homes and trampling our wheat with his cattle. The grasshoppers would never have descended on our fields if his cattle hadn’t been driven onto our lands by his men. The grasshoppers followed the cattle, landed on their backs to be carried into our fields. He didn’t want them destroying his land, so he chased them onto ours.”

“That is a damned lie!” Simon bellowed, realizing Kreuger was playing on the superstitious ignorance of the drylanders. They wanted a scapegoat and Kreuger was giving them one.

“Is it?” Kreuger jeered, then addressed the others. “Is it not true that everywhere his cattle were, there were also grasshoppers?” Heads nodded and looks were exchanged even by some of the more skeptical ones. “The insects ate our crops and our food, and ruined our wells. Now Calder brings us water—water that will probably make us sick. He thinks we are so thirsty—so desperate—that we will take water even from the man who has always been our enemy.”

Simon swung away, lifting his hands in a wild gesture of disgust. “The man’s crazy,” he muttered to Webb. “There’s no reasoning with him.”

Doyle Pettit had seen the gathering of people and wagons around the community well as he left the bank for lunch. He angled over to see what all the commotion was about, and caught the tail end of Kreuger’s speech, enough to piece together with the evidence of the Triple C wagons and men.

A smile made a slow curve across his mouth, his eyes gleaming with a way to use this situation to his advantage. Without drawing attention to himself, he circled the crowd and approached Webb from the livery side, using Webb’s horse to shield him from the view of the main party of drylanders.

“Webb.” He kept his voice low. “Even if any of them wanted it, Kreuger isn’t going to let them take any of your water. The man’s got a blind spot when it comes to you. You and the boys might as well take your wagons and water and head back for the ranch.”

“But what are they going to do for water?” Webb muttered, agreeing with Doyle Pettit’s conclusion and knowing the problem remained.

A boyish grin flashed across Doyle’s features, revealing a pride in his own clever thinking. “I said ‘head’ back to the ranch, but don’t ‘go’ to the ranch. About five miles outside of town, there’s a draw. Wait for me there. It’ll take me a couple of hours to round up wagons and some drivers. We’ll transfer your water onto my wagons and I’ll bring it back into town. These drylanders think I’m one of them, so they won’t ask twice where I got it.” He looked at Webb, “Is it a deal?”

It was a simple and highly workable solution. Webb nodded. “We’ll meet you at Simmons’ Wash in two hours.”

“I’d stay around to chat, but Kreuger might spot me talking to you and decide I’ve been contaminated.” Doyle backed away as unobtrusively as he’d come, silently congratulating himself. It was his ability to size up a situation and turn it to his advantage that was going to enable him to own half the state someday. A man had to think on his feet, and not let any opportunity slip by him.