Deep Furrows | Page 4

his
thoughts. His fists clenched spasmodically and there was an angry glint
in his eyes. Occasionally he shook his head as if the matter in mind
were almost too hopeless for consideration. A sudden surge of
resentment made him lash his booted leg with the ends of the lines.
"Confound them!" he muttered aloud.
He had just delivered his first load of the season's new wheat. Three
nights before, by lantern light, he had backed his horses to the wagon
and hauled it twenty-five miles to the railway at Indian Head. His stay
there had not been conducive to peace of mind.
To reach the rails with a heavy load in favorable weather was simple
enough; it merely required time. But many such trips would be
necessary before his crop was marketed. Some of the farmers from
beyond the Qu'Appelle would be hauling all winter; it was in winter
that the haul was long and cruel. Starting at one, two or three o'clock in
the morning, it would be impossible to forecast the weather with any
degree of accuracy, so that often they would be overtaken by blizzards.
At such times the lack of stopping-places and shelter in the sparsely
settled reaches of the trail encompassed the journey with risks every
whit as real as pioneer perils of marauding Indians or trailing
wolf-packs.
Snow and wind, however, had no place in the thoughts of the lonely
farmer at the moment. Such things he had been used to ever since he
first homesteaded; this long haul with the products of his toil he had
been making for many years. What immediately concerned him was the
discouraging prospect of another wheat blockade instead of any
improvement in conditions which had become unbearable. With the
country as full of wheat as it was this year it required no great gift of
prophecy to foretell what would happen.

It was happening already. The railway people were ignoring completely
the car-distribution clauses of the Grain Act and thereby playing in
with the elevator interests, so that the farmers were going to be just
where they were before--at the mercy of the buyers, their legitimate
profits filched by excessive dockage, low grades, depressed prices,
exorbitant storage charges, even short weights in some cases. All this in
spite of the strong agitation which had led to Government action, in
spite of the Royal Commission which had investigated the farmers'
claims and had recommended the Grain Act, in spite of the legislation
on the statutes! Law or no law, the farmer was still to be preyed upon,
apparently, without a single weapon left with which----
The eyes of the man in the broad-brimmed hat grew grave. Scoff as he
might among the men of the district when the serious ones voiced their
fears to him, his own thoughts always came back to those fears. From
the Red River Valley to the foothills long-smouldering indignation was
glowing like a streak of fire in the prairie grass; a spark or two more
and nothing could stop the conflagration that would sweep the plains
country. If the law were to fail these red-blooded and long-suffering
homesteaders there would be final weapons alright--real weapons! It
was no use shutting one's eyes to the danger. Some fool would do
something rash, and with the farmers already inflamed and embittered,
there was no telling what desperate things might be attempted.
That was the fear which stirred and perplexed the solitary traveller; for
he had heard things that afternoon--seen things that he did not like but
could not ignore. He recognized an undercurrent of feeling, a silence
more ominous than all the heated talk, and that was where the danger
lay. Something would have to be done, and that soon. But what? What?
So engrossed was he that beyond an occasional flip of the reins or a
word to the horses he paid no heed to his surroundings. A huge
jack-rabbit sprang up, almost from beneath the noses of the team, and
went flying off in great leaps over the stubble. A covey of prairie
chicken, fat and fit, whirred into the air and rocketed away. But he
scarcely saw them. Had he looked up he might have noticed a
horseman loping down a cross trail with the evident intention of

heading off the wagon. But the rider had pounded almost within hailing
distance before the other was aware of his approach.
It was Bob McNair of the "Two-Bar Ranch," as he insisted upon calling
his wheat farm. He waved an oil-spattered Stetson and came into the
trail with a rush, pulling up the wiry broncho with a suddenness that
would have unseated one less accustomed than McNair, former
corporal, Royal North-West Mounted Police.
"Howdy, W. R. Thought 'twas your outfit. Good job I aint a Blackfoot