The One-Way Trail. Cullum Ridgwell
out, and put your change into automobiles. They aren’t things to breed with, I guess. But I’d say they’d raise a dust there’s more dollars in than there’s beans in our supper hash.”
The rancher’s swift anger had gone. He shook his head, and his hard, blue eyes stared out through the doorway at the busy life beyond. He could see the lines of buildings packed close together, as though huddling up for companionship in that wide, lonesome world of grass. He could see the acres and acres of corrals, outlying, a rampart to the ranch buildings. Then, beyond that, the barbed wire fencing, miles and miles of it. He could see horsemen moving about, engaged upon their day’s work. 11 He could hear the lowing of the cattle in the corrals. As Thorpe had said, he had grown up to cattle. Cattle and horses were his life.
He was rich now. This was all his. He was growing richer every year, and––Thorpe was prophesying the slump, the end. He couldn’t believe it, or rather he wouldn’t believe it. And he turned with a fierce expression of blind loyalty to his calling.
“To h––– with automobiles! It’s cattle for me. Cattle or bust!”
Thorpe shook his head.
“There’s no alternative, boss. I can see it all coming. Everybody can––if they look. There’s nothing between grain farming and––automobiles. The land here is too rich to waste on cattle. There’s plenty other land elsewhere that’ll feed stock, but wouldn’t raise a carrot. Psha! There won’t be need for horses to plough, or even haul grain; and you’ve got 15,000 head. It’ll be all automobiles!”
“I’d ‘scrap’ the lot!” added the Irishman, briefly and feelingly. Then he glanced at his companion out of the tail of his eye. “I s’pose it’s your education, boy. That’s what’s wrong with you. Your head’s running wheels. You come into cattle too late. You’ve got city doings down your backbone, and I guess you need weeding bad. Say, you’re a West Point man, ain’t you?”
Thorpe seemed to shrink at the question. He turned aside, and his eyes rested for a moment on the portrait nailed upon his wall. It was only for a moment his dark eyes encountered the tender old eyes that looked out at him from the faded picture. Then he looked again at the owner of the “AZ’s,” and gave him a smiling nod.
12
“Sure, boss. I intended to go into the engineers.”
“Ah––wheels.”
“You see, we’ve all been soldiers, since way back when my folks came over with the first lot from England. Guess I’m the first––backslider.”
“Nope. You ain’t a backslider, Jim Thorpe. I sure wouldn’t say that. Not on my life. Guess you’re the victim of a cow-headed government that reckons to make soldiers by arithmetic, an’ wastin’ ink makin’ fool answers to a sight more fool questions. Gee, when I hit Congress, I’ll make some one holler ‘help.’”
The foreman’s smile broadened.
“’Twasn’t exams, boss,” he said quietly. “I’d got a cinch on them, and they were mostly past cutting any ice with me. It was––well, it don’t matter now.” He paused, and his eyes settled again on the portrait. The Irishman waited, and presently Jim turned from the picture, and his quizzical smile encountered the hard blue eyes of the other.
“You said just now my head was full of wheels,” he began, with a humorous light in his eyes that was yet not without sadness. “Maybe it is––maybe it has reason to be. You see, it was an automobile that finished my career at West Point. My mother came by her death in one. An accident. Automobiles were immature then––and––well, her income died with her, and I had to quit and hustle in a new direction. Curiously enough I went into the works of an automobile enterprise. I––I hated the things, but they fascinated me. I made good there, and got together a fat wad of bills, which was useful seeing I had my young cousin’s––you know, young Will Henderson, of Barnriff; he’s a trapper now––education on my hands. 13 Just as things were good and dollars were coming plenty the enterprise bust. I was out––plumb out. I hunched up for another kick. I had a dandy patent that was to do big things. I got together a syndicate to run it. I’d got a big car built to demonstrate my patent, and it represented all I had in the world. It was to be on the race-track. Say, she didn’t demonstrate worth a cent. My syndicate jibbed, and I––well, here I am, a cattleman––you see cattle haven’t the speed of automobiles, but they mostly do what’s expected. That’s my yarn, boss. You didn’t know much of me. It’s not a great yarn as life goes. Mostly ordinary. But there’s a deal of life in it, in its way. There’s a pile of hope busted, and hope busted isn’t a pleasant thing. Makes you think a deal. However, Will Henderson and I––we can’t kick a lot when you look around. I’m earning a good wage, and I’ve got a tidy job––that don’t look like quitting. And Will––he’s netting eighty a month out of his pelts. After all things don’t much count, do they? Fifty or sixty years hence our doings won’t cut any ice. We’re down, out, and nature shuts out memory. That’s the best of it. We shan’t know anything. We’ll have forgotten everything we ever did know. We shan’t be haunted by the ‘might-have-beens’. We shall have no regrets. It’ll just be sleep, a long, long sleep––and forgetfulness. And then––ah, well, boss, I’m yarning a heap, and the boys are out on the fences with no one to see they’re not shooting ‘craps.’”
The rancher turned to the door.
“I’m going out to the fences meself,” he said, shortly. Then he went on: “There’s a dozen an’ more three-year-olds in the corrals needs bustin’. You best set two 14 o’ the boys on ’em. Ther’s a black mare among ’em. I’ll get you to handle her yourself. I’m goin’ to ride her, an’ don’t want no fool broncho-buster tearing her mouth out.”
“Right-ho, boss.” Jim was smiling happily at the man’s broad back as he stood facing out of the door. “But, if you’ve half a minute, I’ve got something else to get through me.”
“Eh?” McLagan turned. His Irish face was alight with sudden interest. “Guess I ain’t busy fer ten minutes.”
“That’s more than enough,” said Jim, readily. “It’s about that land I was speaking to you of the other day. I told you those things about myself––because of that. As I said, you didn’t know much of me, except my work for you.”
McLagan nodded, and chewed the end of his cigar. His keen eyes were studying the other’s face. At last he removed his cigar, and spat out a bit of tobacco leaf.
“I know all I need to,” he said cordially. “The proposition was one hundred and sixty acres for a homestead, with grazin’ rights. You want a lease. Gettin’ married?”
“It might happen that way,” grinned the foreman somewhat sheepishly.
“Found the leddy?”
Jim nodded.
“Marryin’s a fool game anyway.”
“That’s as maybe.”
McLagan shrugged.
“Guess I don’t want wimmin-folk in mine. You’re goin’ to hold your job?”
15
“Sure. You see, boss–––” Jim began to explain.
But McLagan broke in.
“You can have it for rent, boy,” he said. “It suits me, if you don’t mean quittin’.”
“I don’t mean quitting,” said Jim. “I’m going to run it with a hired man. Y’see I’ve got one hundred and fifty stock and a bit saved for building. When I get married my wife’ll see to things some. See the work is done while I’m here.”
McLagan grinned and nodded.
“Guess you didn’t seem like gettin’ married jest now, talkin’ of those things. You