As a last characteristic, Annixter pretended to be a woman-hater, for no other reason than that he was a very bull-calf of awkwardness in feminine surroundings.Feemales! Rot! There was a fine way for a man to waste his time and his good money, lally gagging with a lot of feemales.No, thank you; none of it in HIS, if you please.Once only he had an affair--a timid, little creature in a glove-cleaning establishment in Sacramento, whom he had picked up, Heaven knew how.After his return to his ranch, a correspondence had been maintained between the two, Annixter taking the precaution to typewrite his letters, and never affixing his signature, in an excess of prudence.He furthermore made carbon copies of all his letters, filing them away in a compartment of his safe.Ah, it would be a clever feemale who would get him into a mess.Then, suddenly smitten with a panic terror that he had committed himself, that he was involving himself too deeply, he had abruptly sent the little woman about her business.It was his only love affair.After that, he kept himself free.No petticoats should ever have a hold on him.
Sure not.
As Presley came up to the edge of the porch, pushing his bicycle in front of him, Annixter excused himself for not getting up, alleging that the cramps returned the moment he was off his back.
"What are you doing up this way?" he demanded.
"Oh, just having a look around," answered Presley."How's the ranch?""Say," observed the other, ignoring his question, "what's this Ihear about Derrick giving his tenants the bounce, and working Los Muertos himself--working ALL his land?"Presley made a sharp movement of impatience with his free hand.
"I've heard nothing else myself since morning.I suppose it must be so.""Huh!" grunted Annixter, spitting out a prune stone."You give Magnus Derrick my compliments and tell him he's a fool.""What do you mean?"
"I suppose Derrick thinks he's still running his mine, and that the same principles will apply to getting grain out of the earth as to getting gold.Oh, let him go on and see where he brings up.That's right, there's your Western farmer," he exclaimed contemptuously."Get the guts out of your land; work it to death; never give it a rest.Never alternate your crop, and then when your soil is exhausted, sit down and roar about hard times.""I suppose Magnus thinks the land has had rest enough these last two dry seasons," observed Presley."He has raised no crop to speak of for two years.The land has had a good rest.""Ah, yes, that sounds well," Annixter contradicted, unwilling to be convinced."In a way, the land's been rested, and then, again, in a way, it hasn't."But Presley, scenting an argument, refrained from answering, and bethought himself of moving on.
"I'm going to leave my wheel here for a while, Buck," he said, "if you don't mind.I'm going up to the spring, and the road is rough between here and there.""Stop in for dinner on your way back," said Annixter."There'll be a venison steak.One of the boys got a deer over in the foothills last week.Out of season, but never mind that.Ican't eat it.This stomach of mine wouldn't digest sweet oil to-day.Get here about six."
"Well, maybe I will, thank you," said Presley, moving off."By the way," he added, "I see your barn is about done.""You bet," answered Annixter."In about a fortnight now she'll be all ready.""It's a big barn," murmured Presley, glancing around the angle of the house toward where the great structure stood.
"Guess we'll have to have a dance there before we move the stock in," observed Annixter."That's the custom all around here."Presley took himself off, but at the gate Annixter called after him, his mouth full of prunes, "Say, take a look at that herd of sheep as you go up.They are right off here to the east of the road, about half a mile from here.I guess that's the biggest lot of sheep YOU ever saw.You might write a poem about 'em.
Lamb--ram; sheep graze--sunny days.Catch on?"Beyond Broderson Creek, as Presley advanced, tramping along on foot now, the land opened out again into the same vast spaces of dull brown earth, sprinkled with stubble, such as had been characteristic of Derrick's ranch.To the east the reach seemed infinite, flat, cheerless, heat-ridden, unrolling like a gigantic scroll toward the faint shimmer of the distant horizons, with here and there an isolated live-oak to break the sombre monotony.
But bordering the road to the westward, the surface roughened and raised, clambering up to the higher ground, on the crest of which the old Mission and its surrounding pear trees were now plainly visible.
Just beyond the Mission, the road bent abruptly eastward, striking off across the Seed ranch.But Presley left the road at this point, going on across the open fields.There was no longer any trail.It was toward three o'clock.The sun still spun, a silent, blazing disc, high in the heavens, and tramping through the clods of uneven, broken plough was fatiguing work.The slope of the lowest foothills begun, the surface of the country became rolling, and, suddenly, as he topped a higher ridge, Presley came upon the sheep.
Already he had passed the larger part of the herd--an intervening rise of ground having hidden it from sight.Now, as he turned half way about, looking down into the shallow hollow between him and the curve of the creek, he saw them very plainly.The fringe of the herd was some two hundred yards distant, but its farther side, in that illusive shimmer of hot surface air, seemed miles away.The sheep were spread out roughly in the shape of a figure eight, two larger herds connected by a smaller, and were headed to the southward, moving slowly, grazing on the wheat stubble as they proceeded.But the number seemed incalculable.Hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of grey, rounded backs, all exactly alike, huddled, close-packed, alive, hid the earth from sight.
