Then, in the late fall and early winter, we had sufficient
rain to start the feed on our ranges and hope in our hearts. But
throughout February and March not a drop of water fell! Hills and
plains lay beneath bright blue skies, into which we gazed day after
day, week after week, looking for the cloud that never came. The thin
blades of wheat and barley were already frizzling; the tender leaves
of the orchards and vineyards turned a sickly yellow; the few cattle
and horses which had survived began to fall down and die by the empty
creeks and springs. And two dry years in succession meant black ruin
for all of us.
For all of us in the foothills except Pap Spooner. By some mysterious
instinct he had divined and made preparations for a long drought.
Being rich, with land in other counties, he was able to move his stock
to green pastures. We knew that he was storing up the money sucked by
the sun out of us. He was foreclosing mortgages, buying half-starved
horses and steers for a song, selling hay and straw at fabulous
prices. And we were reeling upon the ragged edge of bankruptcy! He,
the beast of prey, the vulture, was gorging on our carrion.
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