The Invaders

Excerpt

Big Joe Merklos was the first of them. He appeared at the Wide Bend National Bank one day, cash in hand. The charm of him, his flashing smile, the easy strength in his big body, were persuasive recommendations. But the bank's appraisal scarcely got that far. Wasn't he the first buyer in fifteen years for that bone-yard of lonely dreams, Dark Valley?

The county seat of Wide Bend presided over three valleys, corresponding to the forks of the Sallinook River. Once, Dark Valley had been the richest of these. Solid houses and barns stood among orchards laden with fruit, fields chock-full of heavy-bearded grain ... till, one Spring, the middle fork of the river had dried up.

The farmers called in specialists who sank wells and pilot holes, measured the slopes. They heard much talk about water tables, about springs undercutting rock formations. But when it was done the fact remained: Dark Valley's water supply was choked off beyond man's ability to restore it. In the end the farmers gave up, left their dusty houses and shriveled orchards, and Dark Valley died.

Boys hiked over there occasionally. Men scouted for fence posts or pipe. Young couples passed quickly through on moonlight nights. And at least two stubborn old-timers still squatted at the upper end.

Now that Joe Merklos had bought it, of course, they would have to move.

"Well, won't they?" Henderson asked.

Jerry Bronson looked around at the other members of the Wide Bend Businessmen's Club. "Doesn't take a lawyer to answer that, Hen."

"Dam' shame," said Caruso, the barber, who always championed underdogs.

"They've had no equity in that land for years. The bank just let them stay on."

"They can move on over the hill."

Jerry nodded. "Maybe somebody ought to suggest that to them."

"Don't look at me," Caruso said. "Those old coots ain't been near my shop for years."

When the chuckles died, MacAllister, the druggist, voiced the thought that rested unspoken on all their minds. "I wonder if that fellow realizes what a worthless piece of land he's bought."

"He looked it over." This was Hammond, of the bank.

"'Course, you didn't try to talk him out of it!"

"Would you have?" Hammond retorted indignantly.

Henderson jabbed the air with his cigar. "I think he was a coal miner, back East. Saved up his money to get on the land."

"I think he's a gypsy," Caruso said.

"You ought to know," Tipton, the grocer, laughed. Caruso got fined for his reply, and with the tinkle of coins in the luncheon club kitty the men dispersed.

Joe Merklos' relatives arrived that night. Henderson, who told Jerry Bronson about it, had made an early morning delivery of feed nearby, and driven on to take a look at Merklos' purchase. From the ridge, he viewed Dark Valley's three miles of width and six or so of length. Figures were moving about the gaunt and windowless farm buildings. At least one plow was in operation, and the good blue friendliness of smoke arose here and there.

"Looked like a lot of people, Jerry. But you know—I didn't see any cars or trucks around."

Jerry's blue eyes crinkled. Human nature didn't like puzzles any more than it liked strangers. He returned to the tedious civil case he was working on. About three o'clock, he decided he was tired and bored enough to call it a day. He got into his car and headed for Dark Valley.

Aside from his curiosity, he thought he might talk to the two old squatters at the far end....