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Authors: D. N. Bedeker
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If I dun’t find him and bring him back, there are gonna be some unhappy big shots back home.”
“There’s no misconception,” said Patrick. “If we don’t bring him back, I’m going to have a very unhappy editor.”
“Well, they must have confidence in you to send someone so young to cover a story of this importance.”
“I’ll be assurin’yuh, Mr. Trout,” Mike interrupted, “that the fact that he was the nephew of duh detective assigned tuh duh case come up in duh conversation.”
Pat smiled at the politeness Mike was showing the salesman. He could never remember his Uncle ever apologizing to anyone when he lost his temper, but he would go as far as to be polite if he felt badly about it later. That was as good as you were going to get from him.
“If the truth be known, it was the editor’s idea and not mine,” said Pat. “There’s a World’s Fair opening and I’m out here on the edge of civilization.”
“Bullshit,” said Mike, smiling his cocky little smile. “Yuh just told me this is duh hottest story in Chicago. Bigger than the Doc Cronin murder. When I haul this young scally-wag Sean Daugherity back tuh justice, you’re gonna be sitting there in the Whitechapel Club as duh center ov attention. Old Peter Finny Dunne will be askin’ yuh how it was bringin’ back this dangerous fugeetive and you’ll be sittin’ there like uh baron tellin’ him all about it.”
Having said that, Mike arose suddenly and began kicking Pat’s long legs out of the way in an effort to get past.
“Where are you going?” asked Pat.
“Sun’s up. It’s time fer me coffee.”
Mike pushed his way down the aisle towards the dining car.
“Uncle Mike is a man of regular habits,” said Pat, “I don’t think all this traveling agrees with his disposition.”
“Well, again, I am sorry for bringing up Sir Horace Plunkett. Actually, he hasn’t returned to EK ranch since his father died a few years ago and left him a handsome inheritance. I was shamelessly name dropping to impress you and it backfired. I forgot about the strained relationship between the English and the Irish. In my youth, I wasn’t given to exaggeration, but it’s something one seems to develop in my line of work.”
“Well, that’s understandable,” said Pat. “You have to be confident to sell. Maybe you can sell your fencing to whoever runs this EK ranch now.”
“Oh, the idea of a 1,000 acre cattle pen is largely my imagination. I sold the company on the concept to keep my job. The foreign investors may have diminished, but the big ranch owners still there have the same attitude. They were brought in by Eastern moneymen who enthralled them with stories of the free range. Get rich on public land. They don’t want to buy land. They want to run huge herds on the public domain with no investment. That’s why my prospects in Cheyenne are dim. If I don’t close a deal there, I’ll have to go up to Buffalo again. I always get some small orders there but the situation in Johnson County is getting very scary.”
“Why is that?” asked Pat.
“Have you noticed everyone wants to go to the front of the train and see the private Pullman car that belonged to cattle baron Morton Frewen when he was the head of the Powder River Cattle Company? No one pays any attention to the last car packed with immigrants. Many of them will be headed towards the Powder River country to start farms or live with relatives that have already settled there. When they get hungry enough, they will pick off a steer from one of the big outfits and call it a maverick.”
“Maverick? What’s a maverick?”
“It’s a calf whose mother has died,” said Phinias. “According to the law of the range it belongs to whoever finds it and put his brand on it. Over the years enterprising cowboys have used a straight running iron to change an existing brand and claim that steer as a maverick. When it was just out-of-work cowboys doing it, the big spreads were
“There’s no misconception,” said Patrick. “If we don’t bring him back, I’m going to have a very unhappy editor.”
“Well, they must have confidence in you to send someone so young to cover a story of this importance.”
“I’ll be assurin’yuh, Mr. Trout,” Mike interrupted, “that the fact that he was the nephew of duh detective assigned tuh duh case come up in duh conversation.”
Pat smiled at the politeness Mike was showing the salesman. He could never remember his Uncle ever apologizing to anyone when he lost his temper, but he would go as far as to be polite if he felt badly about it later. That was as good as you were going to get from him.
“If the truth be known, it was the editor’s idea and not mine,” said Pat. “There’s a World’s Fair opening and I’m out here on the edge of civilization.”
“Bullshit,” said Mike, smiling his cocky little smile. “Yuh just told me this is duh hottest story in Chicago. Bigger than the Doc Cronin murder. When I haul this young scally-wag Sean Daugherity back tuh justice, you’re gonna be sitting there in the Whitechapel Club as duh center ov attention. Old Peter Finny Dunne will be askin’ yuh how it was bringin’ back this dangerous fugeetive and you’ll be sittin’ there like uh baron tellin’ him all about it.”
Having said that, Mike arose suddenly and began kicking Pat’s long legs out of the way in an effort to get past.
“Where are you going?” asked Pat.
“Sun’s up. It’s time fer me coffee.”
Mike pushed his way down the aisle towards the dining car.
“Uncle Mike is a man of regular habits,” said Pat, “I don’t think all this traveling agrees with his disposition.”
“Well, again, I am sorry for bringing up Sir Horace Plunkett. Actually, he hasn’t returned to EK ranch since his father died a few years ago and left him a handsome inheritance. I was shamelessly name dropping to impress you and it backfired. I forgot about the strained relationship between the English and the Irish. In my youth, I wasn’t given to exaggeration, but it’s something one seems to develop in my line of work.”
“Well, that’s understandable,” said Pat. “You have to be confident to sell. Maybe you can sell your fencing to whoever runs this EK ranch now.”
“Oh, the idea of a 1,000 acre cattle pen is largely my imagination. I sold the company on the concept to keep my job. The foreign investors may have diminished, but the big ranch owners still there have the same attitude. They were brought in by Eastern moneymen who enthralled them with stories of the free range. Get rich on public land. They don’t want to buy land. They want to run huge herds on the public domain with no investment. That’s why my prospects in Cheyenne are dim. If I don’t close a deal there, I’ll have to go up to Buffalo again. I always get some small orders there but the situation in Johnson County is getting very scary.”
“Why is that?” asked Pat.
“Have you noticed everyone wants to go to the front of the train and see the private Pullman car that belonged to cattle baron Morton Frewen when he was the head of the Powder River Cattle Company? No one pays any attention to the last car packed with immigrants. Many of them will be headed towards the Powder River country to start farms or live with relatives that have already settled there. When they get hungry enough, they will pick off a steer from one of the big outfits and call it a maverick.”
“Maverick? What’s a maverick?”
“It’s a calf whose mother has died,” said Phinias. “According to the law of the range it belongs to whoever finds it and put his brand on it. Over the years enterprising cowboys have used a straight running iron to change an existing brand and claim that steer as a maverick. When it was just out-of-work cowboys doing it, the big spreads were
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