does Uncle Andy own, just now?”
“How much? Well, he’s growed and growed. Got about three hundred acres out of me in the last ten years. But he got more than that in other directions. He knows how to make things count, Andy does. Let me see. He got eight hundred from the Cumberwells last year. And the biggest section that he ever took in was the whole Grant place, about six months ago.”
“There used to be two thousand acres in the Grant place.”
“There still were when Andy bought it in, Pete. Altogether, I suppose that Andy has got about ten thousand acres of prime range land. He could sell off the whole shebang for not a cent under twenty-five dollars an acre, they tell me.”
“And you have only two hundred and fifty left…and that with a mortgage. A heavy mortgage?”
“Dog-gone me, Peter, but I’m ashamed to mention how big it is. Forty-eight hundred dollars, and the bank will have to scramble to sell the old place and bring in that much.”
“There’s only a shoe string left, then?”
“Only a shoe string.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Peter. “I’ll go to town and wire in the morning. I’ll guarantee to get you more than five thousand by night.”
He heard a faint gasp through the darkness. “You ain’t joking, Peter?”
“I’m dead serious. Dead serious. I have some very good friends. Leave the whole business to me.”
There was another breath of silence, and thenRoss Hale murmured: “Awe, Peter, don’t I see how the thing is? They’re the gents that have seen you in your prime, ragin’ and tearin’ on a football field and making the mud fly and raking in touchdowns quicker than most boys can wink. They’ve seen you swingin’ into action, and they’ve never stopped being your friends, ever since that time, eh? Oh, Peter, what a lot of good it would’ve done me to see a thing like that. What a lot of good it would’ve done me.” And he fell into another silence.
Peter could see that even this boon that was suddenly offered to his father could hardly do more than to make him grieve for the things that might have been. However, he felt that he had struck the first blow, and that, thereafter, the load of gloom would be somewhat lifted from the ranch house and the people in it.
Peter slept that night lightly—a broken sleep. And when the first gray of the dawn was beginning, he left the ranch, harnessed the team to the buckboard, and drove hastily down the main road and then a mile down the twisting lane that led to the Vincent place.
It was just the same. Old Tucker Vincent was dead, and now Tucker’s son looked just as old and as white-haired and as dignified as the original Tucker had always appeared. The county would not have been the county, if it had not been for the Vincents, because they were a veritable pool, out of which good blooded cattle and horses were constantly drawn. They were always raising, and they were always buying. And they never produced and they never bought anything but the most perfect stock for the range.
In an hour Peter had done the thing for which he came. He had selected fifty head of stock, and, in the place of the two broken-down mustangs, there were two sound young horses before him; four more would be driven over with the stock. All these things were paid for in crisp, new banknotes, taken from a sheaf of a comfortable size. Then Peter turned the heads of his team toward town. He made his new steppers streak down the highway till they reached Sumnertown, where he made his brief rounds of the stores. Filling his buckboard with all that it would carry in the way of provisions, he turned back toward the ranch.
As he came up the road past his father’s house, he saw Ross Hale on the front porch, smoking his eternal pipe and looking forth at the world through eyes that were misted with weariness. He came running out and shouting when he saw Peter.
“Pete!” he cried. “Go into the corral and tell them fools to drive the
“How much? Well, he’s growed and growed. Got about three hundred acres out of me in the last ten years. But he got more than that in other directions. He knows how to make things count, Andy does. Let me see. He got eight hundred from the Cumberwells last year. And the biggest section that he ever took in was the whole Grant place, about six months ago.”
“There used to be two thousand acres in the Grant place.”
“There still were when Andy bought it in, Pete. Altogether, I suppose that Andy has got about ten thousand acres of prime range land. He could sell off the whole shebang for not a cent under twenty-five dollars an acre, they tell me.”
“And you have only two hundred and fifty left…and that with a mortgage. A heavy mortgage?”
“Dog-gone me, Peter, but I’m ashamed to mention how big it is. Forty-eight hundred dollars, and the bank will have to scramble to sell the old place and bring in that much.”
“There’s only a shoe string left, then?”
“Only a shoe string.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Peter. “I’ll go to town and wire in the morning. I’ll guarantee to get you more than five thousand by night.”
He heard a faint gasp through the darkness. “You ain’t joking, Peter?”
“I’m dead serious. Dead serious. I have some very good friends. Leave the whole business to me.”
There was another breath of silence, and thenRoss Hale murmured: “Awe, Peter, don’t I see how the thing is? They’re the gents that have seen you in your prime, ragin’ and tearin’ on a football field and making the mud fly and raking in touchdowns quicker than most boys can wink. They’ve seen you swingin’ into action, and they’ve never stopped being your friends, ever since that time, eh? Oh, Peter, what a lot of good it would’ve done me to see a thing like that. What a lot of good it would’ve done me.” And he fell into another silence.
Peter could see that even this boon that was suddenly offered to his father could hardly do more than to make him grieve for the things that might have been. However, he felt that he had struck the first blow, and that, thereafter, the load of gloom would be somewhat lifted from the ranch house and the people in it.
Peter slept that night lightly—a broken sleep. And when the first gray of the dawn was beginning, he left the ranch, harnessed the team to the buckboard, and drove hastily down the main road and then a mile down the twisting lane that led to the Vincent place.
It was just the same. Old Tucker Vincent was dead, and now Tucker’s son looked just as old and as white-haired and as dignified as the original Tucker had always appeared. The county would not have been the county, if it had not been for the Vincents, because they were a veritable pool, out of which good blooded cattle and horses were constantly drawn. They were always raising, and they were always buying. And they never produced and they never bought anything but the most perfect stock for the range.
In an hour Peter had done the thing for which he came. He had selected fifty head of stock, and, in the place of the two broken-down mustangs, there were two sound young horses before him; four more would be driven over with the stock. All these things were paid for in crisp, new banknotes, taken from a sheaf of a comfortable size. Then Peter turned the heads of his team toward town. He made his new steppers streak down the highway till they reached Sumnertown, where he made his brief rounds of the stores. Filling his buckboard with all that it would carry in the way of provisions, he turned back toward the ranch.
As he came up the road past his father’s house, he saw Ross Hale on the front porch, smoking his eternal pipe and looking forth at the world through eyes that were misted with weariness. He came running out and shouting when he saw Peter.
“Pete!” he cried. “Go into the corral and tell them fools to drive the
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