Fight for Powder Valley! Read Free Page A

standing in front of a queer-looking brass instrument mounted on three wooden legs, Pat suddenly realized what the men were, doing. His bronze face relaxed in a chuckle at his own expense. They were surveyors, that’s what. Measuring off a line with a chain made of iron links. He had seen government surveyors running section lines before, and he should have known that’s what it was. But he wondered why government surveyors were bothering to run section lines through John Boyd’s ranch. That wasn’t his property line. Boyd owned all the land right down to the creek.
    The surveyor was leaning forward looking through his brass telescope when Pat rode up. He was waving to a man almost half a mile ahead. The man had a pole painted with red and white stripes, and he moved the pole back and forth as the man at the instrument waved to him.
    Pat cocked one leg over the saddlehorn and rolled a cigarette, watching the proceedings with grave interest. Kind of a funny way to do, he thought indulgently, worrying about a few inches this way or that when there were so dang many miles of open country up and down the creek that it didn’t really matter where a section line went. But that was their business, he reckoned, just like his was cattle raising.
    The surveyor was a young man, under thirty, Pat thought. He wore leather boots laced tightly all the way up to his knees, with fancy riding pants that were like a little boy’s britches. He had on a khaki shirt buttoned up tight at the neck with a black four-in-hand tie, and on his head was a hard-brimmed Stetson like soldiers and Easterners wore.
    He hadn’t been West very long, Pat decided, appraising him as he continued to be finicky about where the man in front put his painted pole. His features were sunburnt and the skin was peeling from his cheeks. The backs of his hands were red and blistered also. That always happened to Easterners when they were first exposed to the deceptively mild Colorado sun.
    The surveyor began frantically waving both hands over his head as though he had suddenly gone mad. He stepped back from his three-legged surveying instrument and nodded to Pat with a pleasant, “Good afternoon.”
    He had a smooth agreeable voice, and a well-knit body that showed strength without bulkiness.
    Pat Stevens said, “Howdy.” Then drawled, “Runnin’ some sections lines, I reckon?”
    The young man smiled and took out a white handkerchief to mop his face. He said, “Yes. That’s what I’m doing right now.”
    â€œHow-come that Boyd is surveying off this creek section? Is he aimin’ to fence it in?” asked Pat curiously.
    The surveyor said, “Boyd?” in a tone of surprise, screwing up his face.
    â€œYeh. The fellow you’re workin’ for. This is the Bar X ranch.”
    â€œOh. I see who you mean. The rancher who owns the rest of this property.” The surveyor negligently waved his hand westward, away from the creek. “I didn’t know his name.”
    â€œWhat do you mean … rest of this property?” Pat demanded. “John’s holdin’s ran all the way to the creek the last I heard.”
    â€œThey don’t now. This is his new property line that I’m surveying.”
    â€œYou mean John’s sold this creek section?”
    The surveyor nodded. “Not only this section but two more south of here.”
    Pat said, “I’ll be doggoned. Who bought ’em from him?”
    â€œThe Colorado Western Land and Development Company owns all this creek land now.”
    Pat Stevens suddenly tensed in the saddle. He lowered his lids, making his gray eyes into slits. “That’s a mighty important-sounding name you just said. What do they aim to do with John’s sections?”
    â€œDevelop it for farming. It’s an irrigation project. It’s not only these three sections but a strip a mile wide on each side of the creek all along