what will tame the West.”
Pat peered into the case at the foot long pieces of woven steel wire with jagged barbs and smiled politely. Mike looked out the window and yawned.
“They are for fencing cattle,” said Phinias politely, sensing the two city-dwellers did not fully comprehend his mission in life.
“Oh, yeah,” said Patrick, slowly grasping the concept. “I guess that would do it. I mean, if I were a cow, that would certainly keep me in.”
“A larger part of my business is keeping cattle out. I sell more to farmers trying to hold their land against arrogant cattlemen who have not yet accepted the idea that the open range is a thing of the past. The ranches owned by foreign investors are my new market. Imagine a cattle pen thousands of acres large.”
“Are there a lot of foreign ranch owners?” asked Pat.
“Yes, but not as many as a few years ago,” replied Phinias, “I am on the way in hopes of meeting with Sir Horace Plunkett who runs the EK Ranch. His father was Lord Dunsany.”
“Yuh mean it’s not enough fer those limey bastards tuh own Ireland, they got tuh try to grab up all they can over here!” Mike shouted, suddenly taking new interest in the conversation. “Didn’t we fight a war years ago tuh throw those tea-sippin’tyrants out ov this country and now duh law allows them tuh come back’n buy duh damn place.”
Phinias’ complexion pinkened from Mike’s eruption. He was quick to realize he had brought up the wrong subject to a couple of Irishmen. He looked down sheepishly at his sample case and busied himself putting it back together. Several passengers turned around to check out the commotion. Mike turned back towards the window.
“Don’t mind Uncle Mike, Mr. Trout,” Pat apologized. “He’s just a little short tempered occasionally. It comes from being a cop in Chicago. You have to deal with a lot of bad types and it wears on your nerves.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Phinias. “That job would try anyone’s patience.”
“A lot of stress,” Patrick assured him.
“Are there any more in your party?” asked Phinias, looking around the car for anyone else looking like a police officer.
Patrick looked uncharacteristically puzzled for a moment. He turned to Mike with a look of concern.
“Are there any more in our party?”
Mike turned back towards him. “Our party?”
“How come there aren’t any other officers with us?” he rephrased the question.
“Oh,” Mike shrugged. “Stewart was goin’ tuh give me a couple rookies. He said that’s all Barnes could spare on short notice. None of them had ever ridden a horse or fired a gun except in police training. I told him tuh forget about it. A crew like that would only slow me down. Then I end up with you.”
“So right now there’s you and me and this fellow Marshal Parker telegraphed you about.”
“Dun’t be lettin’ yer edgecated self get nervous,” said Mike. “Chief of Police Barnes told me duh Governor of Wyoming was goin’ tuh supply us with everything. We’re better off with some local deputies.”
“Oh, that’s reassuring.” Patrick could not help but think that he would be more comfortable if a larger Chicago contingent was embarking on this major manhunt.
“Did I overhear you say you were a newsman?” asked Phinias, still eager for conversation.
“Yes, sir,” Pat replied proudly. “For the Chicago Evening Post. It’s the best paper in Chicago.”
Mike turned back from the window and gave his nephew a long look.
“I’m just a cub reporter at this time,” he acknowledged, returning Mike’s look, “but if things go right on this trip, I could have my own desk. I would have to thank my uncle here for that, since he so generously agreed to let me accompany him on this adventure.”
“Yuh know Patrick, we ought tuh clear somethin’ up right now. This ain’t no damn adventure. I’m trackin’ uh wanted fugetive that is charged with killin’ duh next governor’s wife.
Pat peered into the case at the foot long pieces of woven steel wire with jagged barbs and smiled politely. Mike looked out the window and yawned.
“They are for fencing cattle,” said Phinias politely, sensing the two city-dwellers did not fully comprehend his mission in life.
“Oh, yeah,” said Patrick, slowly grasping the concept. “I guess that would do it. I mean, if I were a cow, that would certainly keep me in.”
“A larger part of my business is keeping cattle out. I sell more to farmers trying to hold their land against arrogant cattlemen who have not yet accepted the idea that the open range is a thing of the past. The ranches owned by foreign investors are my new market. Imagine a cattle pen thousands of acres large.”
“Are there a lot of foreign ranch owners?” asked Pat.
“Yes, but not as many as a few years ago,” replied Phinias, “I am on the way in hopes of meeting with Sir Horace Plunkett who runs the EK Ranch. His father was Lord Dunsany.”
“Yuh mean it’s not enough fer those limey bastards tuh own Ireland, they got tuh try to grab up all they can over here!” Mike shouted, suddenly taking new interest in the conversation. “Didn’t we fight a war years ago tuh throw those tea-sippin’tyrants out ov this country and now duh law allows them tuh come back’n buy duh damn place.”
Phinias’ complexion pinkened from Mike’s eruption. He was quick to realize he had brought up the wrong subject to a couple of Irishmen. He looked down sheepishly at his sample case and busied himself putting it back together. Several passengers turned around to check out the commotion. Mike turned back towards the window.
“Don’t mind Uncle Mike, Mr. Trout,” Pat apologized. “He’s just a little short tempered occasionally. It comes from being a cop in Chicago. You have to deal with a lot of bad types and it wears on your nerves.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Phinias. “That job would try anyone’s patience.”
“A lot of stress,” Patrick assured him.
“Are there any more in your party?” asked Phinias, looking around the car for anyone else looking like a police officer.
Patrick looked uncharacteristically puzzled for a moment. He turned to Mike with a look of concern.
“Are there any more in our party?”
Mike turned back towards him. “Our party?”
“How come there aren’t any other officers with us?” he rephrased the question.
“Oh,” Mike shrugged. “Stewart was goin’ tuh give me a couple rookies. He said that’s all Barnes could spare on short notice. None of them had ever ridden a horse or fired a gun except in police training. I told him tuh forget about it. A crew like that would only slow me down. Then I end up with you.”
“So right now there’s you and me and this fellow Marshal Parker telegraphed you about.”
“Dun’t be lettin’ yer edgecated self get nervous,” said Mike. “Chief of Police Barnes told me duh Governor of Wyoming was goin’ tuh supply us with everything. We’re better off with some local deputies.”
“Oh, that’s reassuring.” Patrick could not help but think that he would be more comfortable if a larger Chicago contingent was embarking on this major manhunt.
“Did I overhear you say you were a newsman?” asked Phinias, still eager for conversation.
“Yes, sir,” Pat replied proudly. “For the Chicago Evening Post. It’s the best paper in Chicago.”
Mike turned back from the window and gave his nephew a long look.
“I’m just a cub reporter at this time,” he acknowledged, returning Mike’s look, “but if things go right on this trip, I could have my own desk. I would have to thank my uncle here for that, since he so generously agreed to let me accompany him on this adventure.”
“Yuh know Patrick, we ought tuh clear somethin’ up right now. This ain’t no damn adventure. I’m trackin’ uh wanted fugetive that is charged with killin’ duh next governor’s wife.
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