head as if he believed his lone employee had come down with a severe case of heat stroke from spending too much time under the hot Texas sun.
"That isn’t a ranch, Rancher."
"Maybe not now... but I have plans. You'll see, Hank. Want to partner up with me?"
"I think I'll pass on that offer. I'm telling you... that dump surely isn't worth the dust that covers it."
"I paid five bucks an acre for it, Hank."
"Plus you threw in your pickup truck, Rancher. How are you planning on getting around now?'
"I got feet."
"You know old Ned Barnes would've never parted with that land of his if hadn’t there come the drought."
"Yeah, I know."
"I believe that old buzzard still has the first nickel he ever earned. If he ran away from that ranch, believe you me, that place is long past saving."
"Maybe you're right, Hank. I'm planning on finding out though... sure do wish you'd change your mind and come in with me on my ranch."
"I have enough problems as it is, Rancher... but thanks anyway, and good luck to you. I mean that."
Hank the baker was an astute business man but so far as Rancher Ford could see he had no imagination to speak of. By hauling fifty five gallon drums filled with water he pumped for free at the city park out to his homestead in a horse drawn wagon he found on the farm behind an old nag he got for nothing Rancher watered the parched cows as well as a patch of grass that in its gratitude sprouted up seemingly overnight allowing the hungry animals their first real meal in months.
He counted twelve cows, two bulls, three goats, half a dozen barn cats, and one scrawny chicken. Hunkered in corner of one of the dusty corrals and resting inside a dry and badly beaten bucket he discovered an ancient iron with a trio of sixes on the branding end promptly deciding to name his newly acquired ranch—what there was of it, anyway—the Triple Six.
He did it in part to purposely thumb his nose at the church. Knowing that the triple six sign was regarded with dismay—the mark of the beast—and having no love for the machinations of Catholicism, his father's religion of choice, Rancher never bypassed an opportunity to rub the memory of the old man's face in the dry Texas dirt.
The other reason he called his new ranch the Triple Six was more circumspect... he'd always believed that his destiny wasn't in following the morality of the world so much as it lay in opposition to it. Though he knew it was grandiose to think so, he sometimes saw himself as the antithesis of all that was admirable... little more than a beggar made wealthy despite his own transgressions.
Rummaging in one of the old barns on his newly acquired estate the boy discovered an old grimy tractor that wouldn't run. He spent the next two weeks of his free time tearing down the engine and restoring it to like-new condition. Once he got the machine running he promptly traded the tractor away for the adjoining twenty acre parcel of land that just happened to have a well on it though the old homestead had burned some years prior.
In short order Rancher Ford hauled the dilapidated pump out of the well, repaired it, reinstalled it, and began pumping water to his now revitalized and growing herd of cattle. By the time he was twenty years old the boy owned a thousand acres of ranch land and twice as many cattle and rivaled Hank as one of the wealthiest men in Guthrie.
He still worked for the baker but only on a part time basis since his other business interests tended to take up a good deal of his time. They'd become fast friends and one day Hank stopped over for a visit. It was plain to see that he didn't like what he saw.
"I don' know why you keep on living in this shit hole of a shack, Rancher. You must be worth a million dollars by now. Why don't you build yourself a regular house?"
"I hate to be beholden to any bank and I tend to spend all my money on land, Hank. I suppose one of these days I'll look into upgrading the old homestead but the time isn't
"That isn’t a ranch, Rancher."
"Maybe not now... but I have plans. You'll see, Hank. Want to partner up with me?"
"I think I'll pass on that offer. I'm telling you... that dump surely isn't worth the dust that covers it."
"I paid five bucks an acre for it, Hank."
"Plus you threw in your pickup truck, Rancher. How are you planning on getting around now?'
"I got feet."
"You know old Ned Barnes would've never parted with that land of his if hadn’t there come the drought."
"Yeah, I know."
"I believe that old buzzard still has the first nickel he ever earned. If he ran away from that ranch, believe you me, that place is long past saving."
"Maybe you're right, Hank. I'm planning on finding out though... sure do wish you'd change your mind and come in with me on my ranch."
"I have enough problems as it is, Rancher... but thanks anyway, and good luck to you. I mean that."
Hank the baker was an astute business man but so far as Rancher Ford could see he had no imagination to speak of. By hauling fifty five gallon drums filled with water he pumped for free at the city park out to his homestead in a horse drawn wagon he found on the farm behind an old nag he got for nothing Rancher watered the parched cows as well as a patch of grass that in its gratitude sprouted up seemingly overnight allowing the hungry animals their first real meal in months.
He counted twelve cows, two bulls, three goats, half a dozen barn cats, and one scrawny chicken. Hunkered in corner of one of the dusty corrals and resting inside a dry and badly beaten bucket he discovered an ancient iron with a trio of sixes on the branding end promptly deciding to name his newly acquired ranch—what there was of it, anyway—the Triple Six.
He did it in part to purposely thumb his nose at the church. Knowing that the triple six sign was regarded with dismay—the mark of the beast—and having no love for the machinations of Catholicism, his father's religion of choice, Rancher never bypassed an opportunity to rub the memory of the old man's face in the dry Texas dirt.
The other reason he called his new ranch the Triple Six was more circumspect... he'd always believed that his destiny wasn't in following the morality of the world so much as it lay in opposition to it. Though he knew it was grandiose to think so, he sometimes saw himself as the antithesis of all that was admirable... little more than a beggar made wealthy despite his own transgressions.
Rummaging in one of the old barns on his newly acquired estate the boy discovered an old grimy tractor that wouldn't run. He spent the next two weeks of his free time tearing down the engine and restoring it to like-new condition. Once he got the machine running he promptly traded the tractor away for the adjoining twenty acre parcel of land that just happened to have a well on it though the old homestead had burned some years prior.
In short order Rancher Ford hauled the dilapidated pump out of the well, repaired it, reinstalled it, and began pumping water to his now revitalized and growing herd of cattle. By the time he was twenty years old the boy owned a thousand acres of ranch land and twice as many cattle and rivaled Hank as one of the wealthiest men in Guthrie.
He still worked for the baker but only on a part time basis since his other business interests tended to take up a good deal of his time. They'd become fast friends and one day Hank stopped over for a visit. It was plain to see that he didn't like what he saw.
"I don' know why you keep on living in this shit hole of a shack, Rancher. You must be worth a million dollars by now. Why don't you build yourself a regular house?"
"I hate to be beholden to any bank and I tend to spend all my money on land, Hank. I suppose one of these days I'll look into upgrading the old homestead but the time isn't
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