The Watchman

by Mary Hallock Foote

　　I.The far-Eastern company was counting its Western acres under watercontracts. The acres were in first crops, waiting for the water. The waterwas dallying down its untried channel, searching the new dry earth-banks,seeping, prying, and insinuating sly, minute forces which multiplied andinsisted tremendously the moment a rift had been made. And the orders wereto "watch" and "puddle;" and the watchmen were as other men, and some ofthem doubtless remembered they were working for a company.Travis, the black-eyed young lumberman from the upper Columbia, had beensent down with a special word from the manager commending him as a triedhand, equal to any post or service. The ditch superintendent was lookingfor such a man. He gave him those five crucial miles between the head-gatesand Glenn's Ferry, the notorious beat that had sifted Finlayson's forcewithout yet finding a man who could keep the banks. Some said it was theArc-light saloon at Glenn's Ferry; some said it was the pretty girl atLark's.Whatever it was, Travis raged at it in the silent hours of his one-manwatch; and the report had gone up the line now, three times since he hadtaken hold, of breaks on his division. And the engineer would by no means"weaken" on a question of the work, nor did the loyal watchman ask that anyone should weaken, to spare him. He was all eyes and ears; he watched bydaylight, he listened by dark, and the sounds that he heard in his dreamswere sounds of water searching the banks, swirling and sinking into holes,or of mud subsiding with a wretched flop into the insidious current. It was a queer country along the new ditch below the head-gates; as old andsun-bleached and bony as the stony valleys of Arabia Petrea; all but thatstrip of green that led the eye to where the river wandered, and that warmbrown strip of sown land extending field by field below the ditch.Lark's ranch was the first one below the head-gates, lying between theriver and the ditch, an old homesteader's claim, sub-irrigated by means ofrude dams ponding the natural sloughs. The worn-out land, never drained,was foul and sour, lapsing into swamps, the black alkali oozing andspreading from pools in its boggy pastures.A few pioneer fruit-trees still bloomed and bore, undiscouraged by neglect,and cast homelike shadows on the weedy grass around the cabin and shedsthat slouched at all angles, with nails starting and shingles warping inthe sun.Similar weather-stains and odd kicks and bulges the old rancher's personexhibited, when he came out to sun himself of a rimy morning, when cobwebsglittered on the short, late grass, and his joints reminded him that therains were coming. And up and down the cow-trail below the ditch, morningand evening, went his dairy-herd to pasture; and after them loitered Nancy,on a strawberry pony with milk white mane and tail.The lights and shadows chased her in and out among the willows and fleecycottonwoods and tall swamp-grasses; but Travis rode in the glare, onthe high ditch-bank, and, although they passed each other daily, he hadnever had a good look at the "pretty girl at Lark's." But one morning thewhite-faced heifer broke away and bolted up the ditch-bank, and in a cloudof sun-smitten dust Nancy followed, a figure of virginal wrath with scarletcheeks and wind-blown hair. Reining her pony on the narrow bank, she calledacross to Travis in a voice as clear and fresh as her colors:--"Head her off, can't you? What are you about!" This last to the pony, whowas behaving "mean.""Ride to the bridge and head her this way. I can drive her up the bank,"Travis responded.Nancy obeyed him, and waited at the bridge while he endeavored to persuadethe heifer of the error of her ways. The heifer was not easily persuaded,and Travis was wet to the waist before he had got her out; but he lostnothing of the bright figure guarding the bridge, a slender shape allpink and blue and dark blue, with hair like the sun on brown water,and a perfect seat, and a ringing voice calling thanks and bewilderingencouragement to her ally in the stream. And this was old Solomon'sdaughter!But "Oh, my Nancy!" the boys would groan, with excess of appreciationbeyond words, and for that Nancy heeded them not: and now Travis knew thatthe boys were right."Thank you ever so much!" her clear voice lilted, as the discomfitedrunaway dashed down the bank to the path she had forsaken. "I'm ever sosorry she dug all those bad tracks in the ditch. Will they do any harm?"Travis assured her that nothing did harm if only it were known in time."What is the matter with it, anyhow,--the ditch? Isn't it built right?""The ditch is the prettiest I ever saw," Travis responded, with all thewarmth of his unrequited devotion to that faithless piece of engineering."All new ditches need watching till the banks get settled.""Well, I should say that you watched! Don't you ever stir off that bank?""I eat and sleep sometimes.""You must have a pretty dry camp up above. Wouldn't you like some milk oncein a while?""Thanks; I never happened to fall in with the milkman on my beat.""We have lots to spare, and buttermilk too, if you're not too proud to comefor it. The others used to.""I guess I don't quite catch on.""The other watchmen, the boys who were here before you.""Oh," said Travis coldly."Well, any time you choose to come down I'll save some for you," said thegirl, as if that matter were settled."I'm afraid it is rather off my beat," Travis hesitated, "but I'm just asmuch obliged."Nancy straightened herself haughtily. "Oh, it is nothing to be obliged for,if you don't care to come.""I did not say I didn't care," Travis protested; but she was gone. The dustflew, and presently her dark blue skirt and the pony's silver tail flashedpast the willows in the low grounds."I shall never see her again," he mourned. "So much for those other fellowsspoiling her idea of a watchman's duty. Of course she thought I could comeif I wanted to. Did she ask them, I wonder?"Nancy was piqued, but not resentful. The more he did not come, as eveningafter evening smiled upon the level land; the more she thought of Travis,alone in his dusty camp, alone on his blinding beat; the more she dweltupon the singularity and constancy of his refusal, the more she respectedhim for it.So one day he did see her again. She was sitting on the bridge planks,leaning forward, her arms in her lap, her hat tipped back, a star of whitesunlight touching her forehead. She lifted her head when she heard himcoming and put her hand over her eyes, as if she were dizzy with watchingthe water."How's the ditch?" she called in a voice of sweetest cheer. She was on herfeet now, and he saw how entrancing she was, in a blue muslin frock and abroad white hat with a wreath of pink roses bestrewing the tilted brim. Hadthey got company at the ranch? was his jealous reflection."How's the ditch behaving itself these days?" she repeated."Much as usual, thank you," Travis beamed from his saddle."Breaking, as usual?""Yes; it broke night before last.""Well, I don't believe it's much of a ditch, anyhow. I wouldn't fret aboutit if I was you. Don't you think I'm very good-natured, after your snubbingme so? Here I've brought you a basket of apples, seeing you wouldn't sparetime from your old ditch to come for them yourself. That in the napkin is alittle pat of fresh butter." She lifted the grape-leaves that covered thebasket. "I thought it might taste good in camp.""Good! Well, I rather guess it will taste good! See here, I can't everthank you for this--for bringing it yourself." He had few words, but hislooks were moderately expressive.Nancy blushed with pleasure. "Well, I had to--when folks are so wrapped upin their business. There, with Susan's compliments! Susan's the heifer yourounded up for me in the ditch. I know she made you a lot of work, trackingholes in your banks you're so fussy about. Do you really think it is a goodditch?""I am positive it is.""Then if anything goes wrong down here they will lay the blame on you?""They are welcome to. That's what I am here for."Nancy openly acknowledged her approval of a man that stood right up to hiswork and would take no odds of any one."The other boys were always complaining and saying it was the ditch. Butthere, I know it is mean of me to talk about them.""I guess it won't go any further," said Travis dryly."Well, I hope not. They were good boys enough, but pretty triflingwatchmen, I shouldn't wonder."Travis had nothing to say to this, but he made a mental note or two."When will you give me a chance to return your basket?""Why, anytime; there's no hurry about the basket. Have you any regulartimes?"He looked away, dissembling his joy in the question, and answered as if hewere making an official report,--"I leave camp at six, patrol the line to the ferry and back, lay off anhour, and down again at eleven. Back in camp at three, and two hours fordinner. On again at five, and back in camp at nine. I pass this bridge, forinstance, at seven and nine of a morning, twelve and two afternoons, andsix and eight in the evening.""Six and eight," Nancy mused, with a slight increase of color. "Well, I canstop some evening after cow-time, I suppose; but it isn't any matter aboutthe basket."Six evenings, going and coming, Travis delayed in passing the bridge,on the watch for Nancy; six times he filled the basket with such latefield-flowers as he could find, and she never came. On the seventh eveninghis heart announced her, from as far off as his eyes beheld her. Thistime she was in white, without her hat, and she wore a blue ribbon inher gold-brown braids,--a blue ribbon in her braids, and a red, red rosein either cheek; and her colors, and the colors of the sky, floated likeflowers on the placid water."Well, where is the basket, then?" she merrily demanded."I left it behind, for luck." "For luck? What sort of luck?" "Six times Ibrought it, and you were never here; so to-night I just kicked it into thetent and came off without it. It seems to have been about the right thingto do.""What, my basket!""Your basket. And it was filled with wild flowers, the prettiest I couldfind. It's your own fault for not coming before.""I never set any day that I know of. I have been up to town."Travis was not pleased to hear it."Yes; and I saw your company's manager. What a young man he is! I had noidea managers were ever young. And stylish--my! I'm sure I hope he'll knowme when he sees me again," she added, coloring and dropping her eyes.Travis grimly expressed the opinion that he probably would. Nancy continuedto strike the wrong note with cruel precision; she could not have donebetter had she calculated her words; and all the while looking as innocentas the shining water under her feet,--and that last time she had been sokind!And the ditch was as provoking as Nancy, rewarding his devotion with breaksthat defied all explanation. It was not possible that the patience ofthe management could hold out much longer; and when he should have beendismissed in disgrace from his post, Nancy would lightly class him asanother of those "good boys enough, but trifling watchmen."II.The first dry moon was just past the full. At nine o'clock the sky began towhiten above the long, bare ridge of the side-hill cut. At half past, theedge of the moon's disk clove the sky-line, and the shadow of the ridgecrept down among the willows and tule-beds of the bottom. At ten the shadowhad shrunk; it lay black on the ditch-bank, but the whispering treetopsbelow were turning in silver light that flickered along the cow-path andcaught the still eye of a dark, shallow pool among the tules.Nancy had chosen this night for a stroll to the bridge, where Travis mightbe expected to pass, any time between eight o'clock and moonrise. Insteadof Travis came a man whom she recognized as one of the watchmen from alower division. He saluted her, after the custom of the country, claimingnothing on personal grounds but the privilege to look rather hard at thegirlish figure silhouetted against the water. It was yet early enough forsky-gleams to linger on still pools, or to color the wimpling reaches ofthe ditch.Nancy was disappointed; she had not come out to see a strange rider passingon Travis's gray horse. Her little plans were disconcerted. She had waitedfor what she considered a dignified interval, before seeming to takecognizance of her watchman's hours; now it appeared that the part ofdignity might be overdone. Had Travis been superseded on his beat? She wasconscious of missing him already. Her walk home, through the confidentialwillows, struck a chill of loneliness which the aspect of the house did notdispel. All was as dark and empty as she had left it. Was her father stillat work at those tedious dams? This had been his given reason for frequentabsences of late, after his usual working hours; though why he shouldchoose the dark nights for mending his dams Nancy had not asked herself.To-night she wanted him, or somebody, to drive away this queer new achethat made the moonlight too large and still for one little girl to wanderin alone.She searched for him. He was in none of the expected places; the dankfields were as empty as the house. She turned back to the ditch; from itshigh bank she could see farther into the shadowy places of the bottom.Travis, meanwhile, had been leisurely pursuing his evening beat. He hadovertaken one of his fellow-watchmen, on foot, walking to town, had lenthim his horse for the last two miles to camp, and invited him to helphimself to what he could find for supper, without waiting for his host."It is a still night," said Travis; "I'll mog along slowly up the ditch,and put in a little extra listening: it's at night the water talks."Long after the rider had passed on, the tread of his horse's hoofs washeard, diminishing on the hard-tramped bank; a loosened stone rattled downand splashed into the water; the wind rustled in the tule-beds; then allsurface sounds ceased, and the only talker was the ditch, chuckling anddawdling like an idle child on its errand, which it could not be persuadedto take seriously, to the desert lands.Travis came to the ticklish spot near the bridge, and stopped to listen.Here the ditch cut through beds of clean sand, where the water might sinkand work back into the old ground, the sand holding it like a sponge, tillall the bottom became a bog, and the banks sank in one wide-spread, generalwash-out. The first symptom of such deep-seated trouble would be thewater's motion in the ditch,--whirling round and round as if boring a holein the bottom.Travis laid his ear to the current, for he could judge of the water'smovement by the sound. All seemed right at the bridge, but far up the ditchhe was aware of a new demonstration. He listened awhile, and then walked onwith long, light steps and gained upon the sound, which persisted, definingitself as a muffled churning at marked intervals, with now and then await between. The prodding was of some tool at work under water, at theditch-bank.He crossed to the upper side, and moved forward cautiously along the ridge,crouching that his figure might not be seen against the sky.Nancy had gone up the cow-trail, past the low grounds, and was justclimbing the bank when a dark shape, of man or beast, crashed down theopposite slope and shot like a slide of rock into the water.A half-choked cry followed the plunge, then ugly sounds of a scuffle underthe ditch-bank--men breathing hard, sighing and snorting; and somebodygasped as if he were being held down till his breath was gone."Get in there, you old muskrat! You shall stop your own breaks if it takesyour cursed carcass to do it! Now then, have you got your breath?"Nancy stayed only to hear a voice that was her father's, convulsed withterror and the chill of his repeated duckings, begging to be spared theanguish of drowning by night in three feet of ditch-water."Mr. Travis," she screamed, "you let my father be, whatever you are doingto him! Father, you come right home and get on dry clothes!"Travis was as much amazed as if Diana with the moon on her forehead hadappeared on the ditch-bank to take old Solomon Lark under her maidenprotection; but no less he stuck to his prize of war."Your father hasn't time to change his clothes just yet, Miss Nancy; he'sgot some work to do first.""Who are you, to be setting my father to work? Let go of him this minute!You are drowning him; you are choking him to death!" sobbed the franticgirl. The shadow fortunately withheld the details of her father'scondition, but she had seen enough. Had Travis been drinking? Was the manbereft of his senses?He was quite himself apparently,--hideously cool, yet roused, and his voicecut like steel."You had better go home, Miss Nancy, and light a fire and warm a blanketfor your father's bed. He'll be pretty cold before he gets through withthis night's work."After this cruel speech he took no more notice of Nancy, but leaped uponthe ditch-bank and began hurling earth in great shovelfuls, patting the oldman on the head with his cold tool whenever he tried to clamber up afterhim."You'd better not try that," he roared in a terrible voice that woundedNancy like a blow. "Get in there, now! Puddle, puddle, or I'll have youburied to the ears in five minutes!"It was shocking, hideous, like a horrible dream. The earth rattled down allabout Solomon, and frequently upon him; the water was thick with mud, andthe wretched old man tramped and puddled for dear life, helping to mend thehole which he had secretly dug where no eye could discover, till the waterhad fingered it and enlarged the mischief to a break.It was the work of vermin, and as such Travis had treated his prisoner.Nancy felt the insult as keenly as she abhorred the cruelty. She fled,hysterical with wrath and despair at her own helplessness. But while shemade ready the means of consolation at home, her thinking powers came back,and, between what she suspected and what she remembered, she was not whollyin the dark as to the truth between her father and Travis.There was no one to warm Travis's blankets, when he fell back upon campabout daybreak, reeking with cold perspiration, soaked with ditch-water andsore in every muscle from his frenzy of shoveling. He had had no supperthe night before; his guest had eaten all the cooked food, burned all hislight-wood kindlings, and forgotten to cover the bread-pail, and his breadwas full of sand. He didn't think much of those tenderfeet, who calledthemselves ditch-men, on that lower division where there was no work at allto speak of.He began--worse comfort--to consider his police work from a daughter'spoint of view. Alas for himself and Nancy! His idyl of the ditch wasshattered like the tender sky-reflections that bloomed on its still waters,and vanished when the waters were troubled. His own thoughts were as thatroily pool where he had ducked the old man in the darkness. He overslepthimself, after thinking he should not sleep at all, and started downhis beat not until noon of the next day. Halfway to the bridge on theditch-bank he met Nancy Lark. She gave him a note, which he dismounted totake, she vouchsafing no greeting, not even a look, and standing apartwhile he read it, with the air of a martyr to duty.Mr. Travis [the letter ran],--I am a death-struck man in consequence ofyour outrageous treatment of me last evening. I've took a dum chill, andit has hit me in the vitals through standing in water up to my armpits. Ifyou think your fool ditch is worth more than a Human's life, though yourcompany's enemy, that's for you to settle as you can when the time comesyou'll have to. I don't ask any favors. But if you got anny desency left inyou through working for that fish-livered company of bondholders coming outhere to stomp us farmers into the dirt, you will call this bizness quits. Iaint in no shape to fight ditches no more. You have put me where I be, andthe less said on both sides the better, it looks to me. If that's so youcan say so by word or writing. I should prefer writing as I aint got thatconfidence I might have. Yours truly,SOLOMON LARK."Miss Nancy," said Travis gently, "is your father very sick this morning?""I don't know," Nancy replied."Have you sent for a doctor?""He won't let me.""Have you read this letter?" She flashed an indignant look at him."I wish you would, then.""It is not my letter. I don't know what's in it, and I don't care to know.""Do you know what your father was doing in the ditch last night?""Helping you to mend it, at the risk of his life, because you made him,"Nancy answered quickly."Helping to mend a hole he made himself, so there would be a nice littlebreak in the morning."The subject rested there, till Travis, forced to take the defensive,asked:--"Do you believe me?""Believe what?""What I have just told you about your father?""Oh," she said, "it makes no difference to me. I knew my father pretty wellbefore I ever saw you. If you think he was doing that, why, I suppose youwill have to think so. But even if he was, I don't call that any reason youshould half drown him, and make him work himself to death beside.""But the water was warm! And I did the work. What was it to tread dirt foran hour or so on a summer's night? Wasn't he in the ditch when I foundhim?""I don't know, I'm sure," said Nancy. "I know that you kept him there.""Well, I hope he'll keep out of the ditch after this. Working at ditchesat night isn't good for his health. But you needn't be alarmed about himthis time; I think he'll recover. But remember this: last night I wasthe company's watchman; I had an ugly piece of work to do and I did it;but, fair play or foul, whatever may happen between your father and me,remember, it is only my work, and you are not in it.""Well, I guess I'm in it if my father is," said Nancy, "and that issomething for you to remember.""Oh, hang the work and the ditch and all the ditches!" thought Travis;yet it was the ditch that had put color and soul and meaning into hislife,--that had given him sight of Nancy. And it was not his work norhis convictions about it that stood between them now; it was her woman'scontempt for justice and reason where her feelings were concerned. The casewas simple as Nancy saw it; too simple, for it left him out in the cold. Hewould have had it complicated by a little more feeling in his direction."Well, have I got your answer?" she asked. "Father said I was to bring ananswer, but not to let you come.""He need not be afraid," said Travis bitterly. "If he will leave myditch-banks alone, I shall not meddle with him. Tell him, if there are nomore breaks there will be nothing to report. This break is mended--thebreak in the ditch, I mean.""Then you will not tell?" Nancy stole a look at him that was half a plea."You would even promise to like me a little, wouldn't you, if you couldn'tget the old man off any other way?" he mocked her sorrowfully. "Well, I hadrather have you hate me than stoop to coax me, as I've seen girls do"--He might be satisfied, she passionately answered; she hated him enough. Shehated his work, and the hateful way he did it."You are an unmerciful man!" she accused him, with a sob in her voice. "Youdon't know the trouble my father has had; how many years he has worked,with nothing but his hands; and now your company comes and claims thewater, and turns the river, that belongs to everybody, into their bigditch. I'd like to know how they came to own this river! And when they havegot it all in their ditch, all the little ditches and the ponds will godry. We were here years before any of you ever thought of coming, or knewthere was a country here at all. It's claim-jumping; and not a cent willthey pay, and laugh at us besides, and call us mossbacks. I don't blame myfather one bit, if he did break the ditch. If you are here to watch, thenwatch!--watch me! Perhaps you think I've had a hand in your breaks?"Travis turned pale. He had made the mistake of trying to reason with Nancy,and now he felt that he must go on, in justice to his case, though shewas far away from all his arguments, rapt in the grief, the wrath, theconviction, of her plea."You talk as women talk who only hear one side," he replied. "But youpeople down here don't know the company's intentions; they don't ask, andwhen they do they won't believe what they are told. That talk againstcompanies is an old politicians' drive. This country is too big for singlemen to handle; companies save years of waiting. This one will bring therailroads and the markets, and boom up the price of land. The ditch yourfather hates so will make him a rich man in five years, if he does nothingbut sit still and let it come."As for water, why do you cry before you are hurt? Nobody can steal ariver. That is more politicians' talk, to make out they are the settlers'friends. We are the settlers' friends, because we are the friends of thecountry's boom; it can't boom without us. Why should I believe in thiscompany? I'm a poor man, a settler like your father. I've got land of myown, but I can see we farmers can't do everything for ourselves; it'scheaper to pay a company to help us. They are just peddlers of water, andwe buy it. Who owns the other, then? Don't we own them just as much as theyown us?"Come, if you can't feel it's so, leave hating us at least till we havedone all these things you accuse us of. Wait till we take all the waterand ruin your land. Most of these farmers along the river have got toomuch water; they are ruining their own land. So I tell your father, but hethinks he knows it all.""He is some older than you are, anyhow.""He is too old to be working nights in ditches. Tell him so from me, willyou?""Oh, I'll tell him! I don't think you will be troubled much with us aroundyour ditch, after this. I went to the bridge last night because I thoughtyou were nice, and a friend. I had a respect for you more than for any ofthe others. I might have come to think better of the ditch; but I've hadall the ditch I want, and all the watchmen. Never, till I die, shall Iforget how my father looked," she passionately returned to the charge. "Anold man like him! Why didn't you put me in and make me tread dirt for you?The water was warm; and I'm enough better able than he was!""I'll get right down here and let you tread on me, and be proud to haveyou, if it will cure the sight of what you saw me do last night. I was mad,don't you understand? I have to answer for all this foolishness of yourfather's, remember. It had to be stopped.""Was there no way to stop it but half drowning him, and insulting himbesides?""Yes, there is another way; inform the company, and have him shut up in thePen. I thought I let the old man off pretty easy. But if you prefer theother way, why, next time there's a break, we can try it.""I'm sure we ought to thank you for your kindness," said Nancy. "And if weare Companied out of house and home, and father made a criminal, we shallthank you still more. Good-morning."Their eyes met and hers fell. She turned away, and he remounted and rodeon up the ditch, angry, as a man can be only with one he might have loved,down to those dregs of bitterness that lurk at the bottom of the soundestheart.III.He was but an idle watchman all that day, so sure he was that the ditch wasright and Solomon the author of all his troubles; and Solomon was "fixed"at last. Weariness overcame him, and at the end of his beat he slept, underthe lee of the ditch-bank, instead of returning to his camp.Next morning he was riding along at his usual pace when it struck him howincredibly the ditch had fallen. The line of silt that marked the water'snormal depth now stood exposed and dry, full two feet above its running,and the pulse of the current had weakened as though it were ebbing fast.He put his horse to a run, and lightened ship as he went, casting off hissack of oats, then his coat and such tools as he could spare; he mighthave been traced to the scene of disaster by his impedimenta strewing theditch-bank.The water had had hours the start of him; its work was sickening to behold.A part of the bank had gone clean out, and the ditch was returning to theriver by way of Solomon Lark's alfalfa fields. The homestead itself was indanger.He cut sage-brush and tore up tules by the roots, and piled them as awing-dam against the outer bank, and heaped dirt like mad upon the mats;and as he worked, alone, where forty men were needed, came Nancy, withglowing face, flying down the ditch-bank, calling the word of exquisiterelief:--"I've shut off the water. Was that right?"Right! He had been wishing himself two men, nay, three: one at the bank,and one at the gates, and one carrying word to Finlayson."Can I do anything else?""Yes; make Finlayson's camp quick as you can," Travis panted over ashovelful of dirt he was heaving."Yes; what shall I tell him?""Tell him to send up everything he has got; every man and team andscraper."Nancy was gone, but in a few moments she was back again, wringing herhands, and as white as a cherry-blossom."The water is all down round the house, and father is alone in bed cryinglike a child.""There's nothing to cry about now. You turned off the water; see, it hasalmost stopped.""Can I leave him with you?""Great Scott! I'll take care of him! But go, there's a blessed girl. Youwill save the ditch."Nancy went, covering the desert miles as a bird flies; she exulted in thischance for reparation. But long after Finlayson's forces had arrived andgone to work, she came lagging wearily homeward, all of a color, herselfand the pony, with the yellow road. She had refused a fresh horse at theditch-camp, and, sparing the whip, reached home not until after dark.Her father's excitement in his hours of loneliness had waxed to a pitchof childish frenzy. He wept, he cursed, he counted his losses, and whenhis daughter said, to comfort him, "Why, father, surely they must pay forthis!" he threw himself about in his bed and gave way to lamentations inwhich the secret of his wildness came out. He had done the thing himself;and he dared not risk suspicion, and the investigation that would follow aheavy claim for damages.Nancy could not believe him. "Father, do be quiet; you didn't do any suchthing," she insisted. "How could you, when I know you haven't stirred outof this bed since night before last? Hush, now; you are dreaming; you areout of your head.""I guess I know what I done. I ain't crazy, and I ain't a fool. I made thishole first, before he caught me at the upper one. I made this one to keephim busy on his way up, so's the upper one could get a good start. Theupper one wouldn't 'a' hurt us. It's jest like my cussed luck! I knew itwas a-comin', but I didn't think I'd get it like this. It's all his fault,the great lazy loafer, sleepin' at the bottom of his beat, 'stead o' comin'up as he'd ought to have done last evening. He wasted the whole night,--andcalls himself a watchman!""Well, I'm glad of it," Nancy cried excitedly. "I'm just glad we arewashed out, and I hope this will end it!" and she burst into tears, and ranout of the room.She sat by herself, weeping and storming, in the dark little shed-room."Nancy!" she heard her father calling, "Nancy, child!... Where's that galtaken herself off to?... Are you a-settin' up your back on account of thatditch? If you are, you ain't no child of mine.... I'm dum sorry I let ona word to her about it. How do I know but she's off with it now, to thatwatchman feller. I'll be put in the papers--an old man informed on by hisdarter, and he on his last sick bed!... Nancy, I say, where be you a-hidin'yourself?"Nancy returned to her forlorn charge, and after a while the old man fellasleep. She put out the lamp, for she could see to move about the room bythe light of the sage-brush bonfires that flared along the ditch, lightingthe men and teams, all Finlayson's force, at work upon the broken banks.The sight was wild and alluring; she went out to watch the strange army ofshadows shifting and intermingling against a wall of flame.There was a distressful space to cross, of sand and slippery mud anddrowned vegetation, including the remains of her garden; the look ofeverything was changed. Only the ditch-bank against the reddened skysupplied the usual landmark. Its crest was black with shovelers, and upand down in lurid light climbed the scraper-teams; climbed and dumped, anddropped over the bank to climb again, like figures in a stage procession.There was a bedlam roar and crackle of pitchy fires, rattle of harness,clank of scraper-pans, shouts of men to the cattle, oaths and words ofcommand; and this would go forward unceasingly till the banks held water.And what was the use of contending?Nancy felt bitterly the insignificance of such small scattered folk as herfather, pitiful even in their spite. Their vengeance was like the malice offield-mice or rabbits, which the farmers fenced out of their fields intothe desert where they belonged. What could such as they do either to helpor hinder this invincible march of capital into the country where they,with untold hardships, had located the first claims? And some of them wereready enough, for a little temporary relief, to part with their birthrightto these clever sons of Jacob."Out we go, to find some other wilderness for them to take away from us! Weare only mossbacks," said the daughter of Esau.As she spoke, half aloud to herself, a man rushed past her down the bank,flattened himself on his hands, laid his face to the water, and drank andpaused to pant, and drank again, while she could have counted a score. Thenhe lifted his head, sighed, and stretched himself back with a groan ofcomplete exhaustion.The firelight touched his face, and showed her Travis: haggard,hollow-eyed, soaked with ditch-water, and matted with mud, looking as if hehad been dragged bodily through the ditch-bank, like thread through a pieceof cloth.Nancy did not try to avoid him."Oh, is it you?" he marveled, softly smiling up at her. "What a splendidride you made! Did nobody thank you? Finlayson said he couldn't find youwhen he was leaving camp."Nancy answered not a word; she was trembling so that she feared to betrayherself by speaking."I was coming to say good-by, when I had washed my face," he continued. "Igot my time to-night.""Your time?""My time-check. They are going to put another man in my place. So youneedn't hate me any longer on account of the ditch; you can transfer allthat to the next fellow.""Isn't that just like them? They never can do anything fair!""Like who? Do you suppose I'm going to kick about it? The only wonder isthey kept me on so long."Every word of Travis's was a knife in Nancy's conscience, to say nothingof her pride. She hugged her arms in her shawl, and rocked herself to andfro. Travis crawled up the bank a little way further, and stretched himselfhumbly beside her. The dark shadows under his aching eyes started a pang ofpity in the girl's heart, sore beset as she was with troubles of her own."I'm glad it's duskish," he remarked, "so you can't see the sweet state I'min. I'm all over top-soil. You might rent me to a Chinaman for twenty-fivedollars an acre; and I don't need any irrigating either."An irresponsible laugh from Nancy was followed by a sob. Then she gatheredherself to speak."See here, do you want to stay on this ditch?""Of course I do. I wanted to stay till I had straightened out my ownrecord, and shown what the ditch can do. But no management under heavencould stand such work as this.""Then stay, if you want to. You have only to say the word. You said you'dinform if there was a next time, and there is. Father did it. He made thisbreak, too; he made them both the same night, and didn't dare to tell ofthis one. Now, go and clear yourself and get back your beat.""Are you sure of this you are telling me?""Well, I guess so. It isn't the sort of thing I'd be likely to make up. AndI say you can tell if you want to. I make you a present of the information.If father isn't willing to take the consequences, I am; and they halfbelong to me. I won't have anybody sheltering us, or losing by us. We havegot no quarrel with you.""That is brave of you. I wish it was something more than brave," sighedTravis. "But I want it all myself. I can't spare this information to thecompany. You didn't do it for them, did you?""When I go telling on my father to save a ditch, I guess it will be afternow," said Nancy. "If that rich company, with all its men and watchmen andteams and money, can't protect itself from one poor old man"--"Never mind the company," said Travis. "What's mine is mine. This word yougave to me, it doesn't belong to my employers. You have saved me to myself;now I shall not go kicking myself for sleeping that night on my beat. It'snot so bad--oh, not half so bad--for me!""Then go tell them, and get the credit for it. Don't you mean to?"She could not see him smile. "When I tell, you will hear of it.""But you talked about your record.""I shall have to go to work and make a new record. Ah, if you would be askind as you are brave! Was it all just for pride you told me this? Don'tyou care, not the least bit, about my part--that I am down and out ofeverything?""It's your own fault, then. I have told you how you can clear yourself andstay.""And lose my chance with you! I was thinking of coming back, some day, totell you--what you must know already. Nancy, you do know!""You forget," shivered Nancy; "I am the daughter of the man you called"--"Is that fair--to bring that up now?""You mustn't deceive yourself. There are some things that can't beforgotten.""How did I know what I was saying? A man isn't always responsible.""I heard you," said Nancy. "There are things we say when we are raging madat a person, and there are things we say when we think them the dirt underour feet. You kept him down with your dirt-shovel, and you called him--whatI can't ever forget.""And is this the only hitch between us?""I should think it was enough. Who despises my father despises me.""But I do not despise him," Travis did not scruple to assert. "The quarrelwas not mine; and I'm not a ditch-man any longer. I will apologize to yourfather.""Oh, I know it costs you nothing to apologize. You don't mind father--anold man like him! You'd take him in, and give him his meals, and pat him onthe head as you would the house-dog that bites because he's old and cross.Well, I'll let you know I don't want you to forgive him, and apologize, andall that stuff. I want you to get even with him.""Be satisfied," said Travis. "The only count I have against your father isthrough his daughter. There is no way for me to get even with you. And whenyou have spoiled a man's life just for one angry word"--"Not angry," she interrupted. "I could have forgiven you that.""For one word, then. And you call it square when you have given me a pieceof information to use for myself, against you! I will go back now and go towork. They can't say I haven't earned my wages on this beat."He looked down at her, longing to gather her, with all her thornysweetness, to his breast; but her attitude forbade him."Can't we shake hands?" he said. They shook hands in silence, and he wentback and finished the night in the ranks of the shovelers,--to work well,to love well, and to get his discharge at last. Yet Travis was not sorrythat he had taken those five miles below Glenn's Ferry: he had foundsomething to work for.The company's officials marveled, as the weeks went by, that nothing washeard of Solomon Lark. He had ever been the sturdiest beggar for damages onthe ditch. If he lacked an occasion he could invent one; he was known tobe a fanatic on the subject of the small farmers' wrongs: yet now, with averitable claim to sue for, the old protestant was dumb. Had Solomon turnedthe other cheek? There were jokes about it in the office; they looked tohave some fun with Solomon yet.In the early autumn the joking ceased. There was a final reason for theold man's silence,--Solomon was dead. His ranch was rented to a Chinesevegetable-gardener who bought water from the ditch.The company, through its officials, was disposed to recognize this unspokenclaim that had perished on the lips of the dead. They made an estimate, andoffered Nancy Lark a fair sum in consideration of her father's losses bythe ditch.It was unusual for a company to volunteer a settlement of this kind; itwas still more unusual for the indemnity to be refused. Nancy declined, byletter, first; then the manager asked her to call at the office. She didnot come. He took pains to hunt her up at the house of her friends in town.He might have delegated the call, but he chose to make it in person, andwas struck by an added dignity, a finer beauty in the saddened face of thegirl whom he remembered as a bit of a rustic coquette.He went over the business with her. She was perfectly intelligent in thematter; there had been no misunderstanding. Why then would she not takewhat belonged to her? Companies were not in the habit of paying claims thatwere claims of sentiment."I have made no claim," said Nancy."But you have one. You inherited one. We do not propose to rob"--She put out her hand with a gesture of appeal."My father had no claim. He never made one, nor meant to make one. I amthe best judge of what belongs to me. I don't want this money, and I willnever take one cent of it. But there is a claim you can settle, if you arehunting up claims. It won't cost you anything," she faltered, as if someunguarded impulse had hurried her into a subject that she hardly knew howto go on with. She moved her chair back a little from the light."There was one of your watchmen, on the Glenn's Ferry beat, who lost hisplace on account of those breaks coming one after another"--"Yes," said the manager; "there were several that did. Which man do yourefer to?"The name, she thought, was Travis. Then, blushing, she spoke outcourageously:--"It was Mr. Travis. He was discharged just after the big break. You thoughtit was his carelessness, but it was not. I am the only one that can sayso, and I know it. You lost the best watchman you ever had on the ditchwhen you took his name off your pay-roll. He worked for more than just hismoney's worth, and it hurt him to lose that place.""Are you aware that he made the worst record of any man on the line?""I don't care what his record was; he kept a good watch. It's no concernof mine to say so," she said. Trembling and red and white, the tearsshining in her honest eyes, she persisted: "He had his reasons for neverexplaining, and they were nothing to be ashamed of. I think you mightbelieve me!""I do," said the manager, willing to spare her. "I will attend to the caseof Mr. Travis when I see him. I do not think he has left the country. Infact, he was inquiring about you only the other day, in the office, and heseemed very much concerned to hear of your--of the loss you have suffered.Shall I say that you spoke a good word for him?""You need not do that," she answered with spirit. "He knows whether he keptwatch. But you may say that I ask, as a favor, that he will answer all yourquestions; and you need not be afraid to question him."Travis was given back his beat, but no more explicit exoneration would heaccept. The reason of his reinstatement was not made public, and naturallythere was gossip about it among other discharged watchmen who had not beeninvited to try again.Two of these cynic philosophers, popularly known as sore-heads,foregathered one morning at Glenn's Ferry and began to discuss themanagement and the ditch."Travis don't seem to have so much trouble with the water this year as hehad last," the first ex-watchman remarked. "Used to get away with him on anaverage once a week, so I hear.""He's married his girl," the other explained sarcastically. "He's got moretime to look after the ditch."There is no sand, now, in Travis's bread; the prettiest girl on the ditchmakes it for him, and walks beside him when the lights are fair and theshadows long on the ditch-bank. And it is a pleasure to record that bothNancy and the ditch are behaving as dutifully as girls and water can beexpected to do, when taken from their self-found paths and committed to thesober bounds of responsibility.Flowers bloom upon its banks, heaven is reflected in its waters, fair andbroad are the fertile pastures that lie beyond; but the best-trained ditchcan never be a river, nor the gentlest wife a girl again.