Hawke watched the train leave, then walked down to the livery to saddle his horse. Though back in town from Chicago for two weeks, he had not yet been out to Northumbria. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to telling Dorchester that he’d been fired from his job as a pianist on board the transcontinental train, since Dorchester had gotten the job for him. On the other hand, he felt he owed it to him.
As Hawke dismounted in front of the house, a servant hurried to take the reins of his horse. At almost the same time, Pamela came out onto the porch.
“Hawke!” she called happily. “You’re back!”
“And all in one piece, as you can see,” Hawke replied.
“Come in, come in, Father will be so pleased to see you.”
“Thanks.”
Pamela met him halfway down the front steps. Putting her arm through his, she walked back up to the porch with him. She called to her father as they stepped into the foyer, and Dorchester came from his study to greet them.
“Well, Hawke, my good man, how was your trip?” Dorchester asked. Seeing his valet, he called out to him, “Mr. Wilson, do bring tea and biscuits to the drawing room, would you?” He glanced over at Hawke. “Or would you rather have coffee?”
“Tea will be fine.”
“Then tea it is, Mr. Wilson.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Dorchester,” Wilson replied.
In the study, the three sat in big leather chairs and, as before, Pamela prepared cigars for the two men.
“Thank you,” Hawke said, accepting the cigar. He puffed as Pamela held a match to the end. She lit her father’s cigar as well, and by the time they were surrounded by an aromatic cloud of smoke, Wilson entered, carrying a silver tray with a silver pot of steeping tea, three cups, and a plate of cookies.
“When will you be going back?” Dorchester asked, picking up one of the cookies.
“I beg your pardon?”
“To Chicago. You will be making another trip, won’t you?”
“Uh, no,” Hawke said. “I was fired.”
“You were fired? Why, that’s absurd! You play the piano more beautifully than anyone I’ve ever heard. Why would Union Pacific fire you?”
Hawke told the story of the drunken and disruptive cowboy, ending with what happened to him. To his surprise, Dorchester laughed.
“You threw him from the train?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, it was very rash of me, I admit. But at the time, it just seemed like the right thing to do.”
Dorchester continued laughing, and he laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes.
“No, no, dear boy, do not apologize,” he said, waving his finger back and forth. “How often I have wanted to do something exactly like that. Unfortunately, my very proper British upbringing has prevented me from giving in to those urges. But disabuse yourself of any idea that I can’t take vicarious pleasure from someone else doing it.”
“Yes, well, it did get me fired from the Union Pacific job,” Hawke said. “And since you went out of your way to locate the job, I felt that I owed you an apology.”
“Nonsense, my good man, you owe me nothing of the sort. As I say, I am deriving a great deal of pleasure from imagining the look on that boor’s face as he found himself flying from the cars.”
“So, what will you be doing now?” Pamela asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“I hope you don’t decide to play the piano at the Royal Flush,” Dorchester said. “Their piano is so bad it would be a sin for someone with your talent to even try to play it. I’ve heard better music from rattling harness chain.”
Hawke laughed. “That’s a pretty good description of the piano, all right.”
“And their piano player. Unless…good heavens, you aren’t working there, are you?” he asked, now genuinely concerned.
“No, I’m not working there.”
“Thank goodness for that.”
“Father, why don’t you ask Hawke to work for us?” Pamela said.
“Hello, that is a marvelous idea!” Dorchester said. “It has nothing to do with the piano, I’m afraid, but would you consider working for us?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t think I would make much of a cowboy. I never was much of a farmer either, and I was raised on a farm.”
“Well, actually, you wouldn’t have to be a cowboy, as such,” Dorchester said. “I would use you in more of a supervisory role.”
“As foreman of the ranch,” Pamela clarified.
“What about the foreman you have now?” Hawke asked. “How do you think that would sit with him?”
“Oh, that fellow wouldn’t even know it,” Dorchester said. “He left the ranch right after he heard that gold had been discovered up at South Pass. And, remember, as foreman, all the manual labor would be supplied by the hands who are under you.”
“It is a tempting proposition,” Hawke admitted.
Someone knocked on the door of the study, and Dorchester looked toward the door. A slim, gangly-looking cowboy stood there, holding his hat in his hand.
“Yes, Willie, what is it?” Dorchester asked.
“It’s about the water in Sugar Creek,”
“Oh? What about the water in Sugar Creek?”
“There ain’t none,” Willie said stoically.
As Hawke, Dorchester, Pamela, and Willie rode toward Sugar Creek, Dorchester took delight in talking about his ranch.
“The first four years I was here, I was beginning to think that I had lost my mind in even contemplating a ranching venture. I had to deal with Indians, weather, and the fact that I was too far away from civilization to make it practical. Then the railroad arrived and I had a way of getting my beef to the market. Since then it has been wonderfully profitable.”
Thousands of cattle milled about, some cropping grass some lying under shade trees, others sunning themselves in open fields. The range consisted of gently rolling grassland. To the southeast lay a low-lying ridge of hills, close enough that Hawke could see the vegetation on the slopes. To the north was another line of mountains, purpled by distance.
“That’s the Sweetwater Range,” Dorchester said, pointing toward the distant mountains. “Half of my cowboys are up there right now, hunting for gold. A couple of them have even told me that when they strike it rich, they are going to come back and buy Northumbria. But they hastened to add that they would offer me a job,” he said with a chuckle.
Just ahead of them was a long, irregular line of bright green vegetation.
“That must be the creek,” Hawke said.
“Yes. It was one of my earliest accomplishments,” Dorchester replied. “The water actually flows from the Big Sandy, but the channel was clogged nearly shut with rocks and bank cave-ins and such. It took me two years to get it open and cleared out, but the result has been a steady, year-round supply of water. I can’t imagine what would stop it.”
“Perhaps a beaver dam,” Hawke suggested. “I’ve seen beaver dams so large that they’ve shut down small rivers.”
“Perhaps,” Dorchester said, “though we don’t have a history of problems with beaver.”
When they reached the line of vegetation, they dismounted and walked up to the creek to look down into it.
“What in the world?” Pamela said aloud.
There was nothing where the creek had been but a few disconnected puddles of water, slowly drying up under the sun. Not one trickle of water was flowing.
“Let’s go upstream and see if we can find out what happened,” Hawke suggested.
The four riders began following the dry stream bed along its meandering course.