“Nossir! Not now nor never! Why, listen, Len—aw, that’s onreasonable. No danged female could run a cow ranch. I tell yuh, I won’t stand for it. Me and Sailor has talked it over among us, and he feels the same as I do. Of course, his opinion ain’t worth nothin’, as far as that is concerned, but we’re ready to step right out when she comes.”
Whispering Taylor waved his arms a few times, kicked a stick of wood under the stove, and glared at Len Ayres, who was tilted back in a chair against the kitchen wall, hands locked around his knees.
“Step out where, Whisperin’?” he asked calmly.
“That’s the whole trouble, Len. Me and Sailor ain’t as young as we used to was. I might git a job cookin’ some’ers, but old Sailor’s a total loss on the job question. Jist a couple of old derelicts. Len, it’s awful to git old, don’tcha know it?”
“Yeah, that’s right, Whisperin’. If I was in yore place, I’d stay here—if she’ll keep yuh—and I think she will. Looks like a sensible girl. Of course, she’d be advised by Baggs, but he’s a friend of mine, and I’ll ask him to tell her to keep you and Sailor.”
“You ain’t tryin’ to be comical, are yuh, Len?” Whisperin’ asked.
“What about?”
“About you and Amos Baggs bein’ friends.”
“No-o. He’ll do what I ask, Whisperin’.”
“Uh-huh?” dubiously. He walked to the kitchen door.
“That’s enough wood, Sailor!” he yelled.
“Fetch in both sticks, will yuh?”
Sailor came staggering in with an armful of wood, which he flung down with a great clatter.
“Think yo’re funny, don’tcha?” he asked Whisperin’. “I’ll betcha I can cut more wood in a day than you can. Betcha forty dollars, I can.”
“What’ll yuh use for money, you spittin’ old badger?”
“Oh, I’ve got the money.”
“You have not. Sailor, me and Len has decided that the best thing for me and you to do is to stay right here.”
“You and Len has, eh? I ain’t got a thing to say about it, eh? Well, I’m not stayin’. No danged female can tell me what to do.”
“Where’d yuh go, you old ram?” asked Whisperin’.
“Well, I’d find a job, I’m three years younger than you are, Whisperin’, I—I can get a job.”
“What doin’?”
“Punchin’ cows.”
“Yeah, you could! Can’t even fork a gentle horse.”
“You tryin’ to pick a fight with me, Whisperin’?”
“Fight, hell! I never fight with kids. Go out on the porch and quarrel with Len; I’ve got to cook a meal.”
In the meantime Amos Baggs had secured a livery-stable rig and was bringing Nan out to the Box S. The road was rutty, and the buggy springs threatened to throw them both out at any time, so conversation was limited.
“Of course, you’ll take charge of the place,” explained Baggs. “I’ll handle all the details. Pollock said you had plenty of nerve, and he’s a good judge of women. I suppose you might as well keep those two old men. One is a very good cook. And I have decided that you will keep Len Ayres. He is a good cow-man and can advise you in everything in that line.”
“You mean the man who just came back from prison?”
“Exactly.”
“But is he a safe person to have around?” smiled Nan.
Baggs’s right hand went instinctively to his ear, but jerked back quickly.
“I—I think so,” he faltered. “We’ll give him a trial. Try to make the best of it, because it’s well worth your while. I’ll keep you instructed.”
They drove in at the front of the ranch house, and Len met them. Whispering and Sailor stayed in the kitchen, eyeing each other, as they heard Len talking to Nan. The three of them came in the house together.
“I reckon you better occupy Harmony’s old room,” said Len. “It’s the best in the place.”
Len led the way, carrying Nan’s valise. It was a rather small room, with one big window and a single bed. The floor was covered with Navaho rugs and on the walls were some old pictures. The top of an old dresser was covered with a piece of calfskin, hair-side up, and above the dresser hung two Winchester rifles, while twisted around a head-post of the bed was an old cartridge belt, supporting a holstered Colt.
“I suppose we may as well remove the guns,” said Baggs.
“Not on my account,” said Nan.
“But you won’t want that six-shooter at the head of your bed,” said Baggs.
“Leave it there, please,” replied Nan.
“Oh, well, if you really care for it.”
He turned to Len, in whose eyes was a glint of amusement.
“Miss Singer has decided to keep you, Ayres,” he said. “You will help her run the place.”
Len bowed shortly.
“I’ll be going back now,” said Baggs. “I will keep in touch with you, Miss Singer.”
“Thank you, Mr. Baggs.”
She and Len walked out on the porch and watched Baggs ride back down the road. Len leaned against a porch-post, his eyes very sombre, as he watched the dust cloud settle behind Baggs’s equipage. Nan brushed a lock of hair from her forehead and studied Len’s profile for several moments.
“You don’t like him, do you?” she asked.
“Baggs? No, I don’t reckon I do.”
“He asked me to keep you here.”
“Well, that shore was thoughtful of him,” smiled Len.
“Knock us down to the lady, will yuh?”
Len turned quickly. Just outside the door stood Whispering and Sailor, side by side, as stiff as a pair of statues; Whispering’s huge frame entirely blotting out the doorway, while little Sailor, his legs bowed a trifle, seemed less than half the size of his big companion.
“Me and the kid want to meet the lady,” said Whispering, indicating Sailor with a jerk of a huge thumb.
Their actions were so ludicrous that Nan wanted to scream, but they were in deadly earnest.
“Miss Singer,” said Len hoarsely, “I want yuh to meet Whisperin’ Taylor and Sailor Jones.
“Boys, this is Miss Singer, the new owner of the Box S.”
“T’meetcha,” said Sailor, jerking his head nervously.
“Shore a pleasure, ma’am,” said Whispering, and Sailor gave him a glance filled with disgust.
Nan held out her hand to Whispering, who looked at it, looked at her, but finally shook hands gently. The small, white hand looked too frail for him to essay a real handshake. Sailor didn’t wait for a handshake, but went back in the house.
“Well,” said Whispering resignedly, “the place belongs to you, ma’am. We’re at yore beck and call, I reckon.”
“I don’t want you at my beck and call,” said Nan. “You will do just as you have been in the habit of doing.”
“Minus the profanity,” added Len, grinning.
“Oh, shore—shore,” Whispering studied Nan’s face closely. “Yeah, I can see old Harmony in yuh, ma’am. Yore eyes are kinda like hisn, except his was brown. Yore uncle was a man. One of the whitest men on earth, I tell yuh. His word was as good as a gold bond. He played the game according to rules.”
Nan blinked quickly. These two men seemed to be measuring her to see if she came up to the standard of Harmony Singer.
“Well, I—I hope I can make good,” she said. But she looked at Len Ayres, and his greenish-gray eyes seemed to accuse her of a lie.
“You’ll make good,” he said softly. “After all, all yuh need to do is to be honest and play the game on the square.”
“Be honest and play the game on the square,” she repeated to herself as she sat in her room a few minutes later. Did he suspect that she wasn’t on the square, she wondered?
She could hear the men talking in the kitchen, and she opened her door just a few inches.
“By God, I never shook her hand!” said Sailor. “I never did kowtow to no woman. I may work for her, but I’ll not shake her hand, Whisperin’. You acted like a plumb fool over her. Yeah, yuh did! Didn’t I hear yuh say that her eyes looked like the ones Harmony had? I shore did. Makin’ a fuss over her eyes!”
“Well, she’s nice, ain’t she?” asked Whispering mildly.
“Nice? Oh, I s’pose she’s nice. Huh! I seen Len makin’ eyes at her, too. I sh’d think he’d had enough of wimmin. Last one married ag’in almost before the gate closed behind him. Well, it’s his business, I reckon. I know I don’t want her.”
“By golly, that ort to relieve her, Sailor. I’ll betcha she’s tremblin’ in her room, waitin’ for somebody to tell her that you don’t want her. Say, git me some wood. I’m minglin’ a reg’lar feed for this evenin’.”
“Panderin’ to her stummick?”
“I’ll pander to the seat of yore overalls, if yuh don’t shut yore yap and git out of here.”
“Oh, I’ll go all right. You burn more wood than any danged cook I ever seen. You ort to git a job in the North Woods. You’d burn all the timber on a quarter section jist to bake one pan of biscuits.”
The kitchen door slammed shut. There was silence for several moments, broken by a rattle of tin dishes in the kitchen, and then Whisperin’s voice raised in song:
“‘Oh, glory be to me!’ says he, ‘and fame’s unfadin’ flowers,I ride my good top hoss to-day, and I’m top hand of the Lazy J,So Kitty-cat, you’re ours!’”
“‘Oh, glory be to me!’ says he, ‘and fame’s unfadin’ flowers,
I ride my good top hoss to-day, and I’m top hand of the Lazy J,
So Kitty-cat, you’re ours!’”
Came a verse of unintelligible words, and another chorus:
“‘Oh, glory be to me!’ says he, ‘we’ll hit the glory trail.No man has lopped a lion’s head and lived to drag the critter dead,Till I shall tell the tale.’”
“‘Oh, glory be to me!’ says he, ‘we’ll hit the glory trail.
No man has lopped a lion’s head and lived to drag the critter dead,
Till I shall tell the tale.’”
It was the old southern Arizona cowboy song of High-Chin Bob, who tried to subdue a mountain lion alone with a rope. Old Whisperin’s voice quavered through the last chorus as Sailor came in to crash down his armful of wood.
“Singin’ to her already, eh?” he sneered.
“You didn’t want her, didja, Sailor?”
“I don’t like to see you make a fool of yoreself at yore age, Whisperin’.”
Nan softly closed her door and threw herself on the bed for a good cry, but the tears would not come. Instead she laughed rather hysterically. For some reason or other she couldn’t find anything to cry about, so she sat up, powdered her nose and tried to think calmly.
“You are a despicable liar,” she told her image in the old mirror. “Just a common thief, Nan Whitlock. You were weak enough to get into this mess; now get yourself out clean.”
That night Charley Prentice got as drunk as the proverbial boiled owl. For several years Prentice had totally abstained from all liquor, but this night he drank himself blind drunk at the Oasis and took two quarts of whisky home with him.
It was nothing unusual for a man to get drunk in Lobo Wells, but for a man in Charley Prentice’s position it was not quite the right thing. Harry Cole had tried to dissuade him, but he refused to accept advice.
“You don’t want that stuff, Charley,” said Cole. “You can’t afford to fill yore skin with hard liquor.”
“Lemme alone,” said Charley owlishly. “My business.”
And Amos Baggs, not at all a teetotaller, looked with disfavour upon Charley. He had a few drinks with Charley, arguing against it all the time, but Charley was too drunk to care what Amos thought.
After Charley staggered away with his two bottles, Amos conferred with Harry.
“That’s all wrong,” said Amos. “He’s been sober and clear-minded for a long time. And you know Charley. What’s wrong with him, Harry?”
“Scared,” said Cole softly. “He’s scared of Len Ayres. I’ve always told yuh that Prentice is a damn yellow pup, Amos. Drinkin’ to hide the yellow. He kept talkin’ to me, just when he starts to drink this evenin’, and he kept wonderin’ why Len came back. I told him to forget it. Damn him, he snivels when he gets drunk. Scared of his shadder.”
“You don’t think he’d do anythin’ foolish, do yuh, Harry?”
“Nothin’ more than get drunk. To-morrow is Sunday, so he can sober up—if he wants to. But he took two quarts with him; so it don’t look so good.”
“I had a run-in with Len,” said Amos. He had imbibed enough to expand a little. “He started in to talk smart to me, but he didn’t get far with it. He’s got it in for both of us, Harry. Let’s have a drink.”
They turned to the bar.
“I was talkin’ to Ben Dillon to-day,” said Cole. “He said that the Wells Fargo people evidently think Len came back here to dig up the money he stole from them.”
“He told me about it,” nodded Amos, filling his glass to the brim. It was not often that he bought a drink. “Said he told them to put their own detective on the job. Harry, I’m of the candid opinion that Ben is about as much of a sheriff as you were.”
“I wasn’t so bad,” laughed Cole.
“No, you were all right, Harry. I’d like to see you in office again.”
“Not me. Oh, I had enough of it. Well, here’s regards.”
But Charley Prentice did not sober up the next day. Amos went out to see him, intending to read him a temperance lesson, but Charley was stretched out on a couch, soggy drunk. Minnie, the Indian woman, who did the cooking and housework, was on the porch with the little boy, who was a miniature edition of Len Ayres.
“Charley Prentice drunk,” said the squaw, explaining the whole thing in three words.
“How are you, Larry?” asked the lawyer.
“Aw right,” replied the boy. “I’ve been talking to Minnie about my other dad, but she don’t do much, except grunt. What do you know about him, Mr. Baggs?”
“Why, I don’t know, Larry,” said Baggs thoughtfully.
“Yes, you do know. All the kids know about him.”
“What did they tell you?”
“They said he’d been in prison for stealing money.”
“Mm-m-m-m—well, that’s about the size of it, Larry.”
“But he’s my dad, ain’t he?”
“Yes, I guess he is. But Charley Prentice is your dad now.”
“How do you figure that out? How many dads can a feller have, anyway?”
Baggs took great pains to explain to Larry just how it happened that his name was Prentice. The boy listened.
“Aw right,” he said defiantly. “Then my name ain’t Prentice, it’s Ayres. Len Ayres is my father.”
“Yes, that’s true, Larry. After he was sent to prison, your mother married Charley Prentice. You were two years old at that time. But wouldn’t you rather have a father who is cashier of a bank than to have one just out of prison?”
“Can I take my pick?”
Baggs laughed softly. “I suppose you can, Larry. Mr. Prentice has been mighty good to you, young fellow, and you will be very wise to stay with him. If you want my advice⸺”
“You said I could take my pick,” reminded the boy quickly.
“You listen to me, young man.” Baggs’s voice assumed authority. “You are just at the age when you need some one capable of looking after your welfare. You are not old enough to judge for yourself. Charley Prentice can do this; Ayres can’t. For all you know, he may be back in prison within a month, and then you would be a county charge. Know what that means? No, of course not. Well, you stick to Charley Prentice.”
Baggs adjusted his hat and walked away, leaving the boy looking after him with troubled eyes.
“What’s a county charge, Minnie?” he asked
“Dunno,” grunted the squaw.
“You don’t know much, do you, Minnie?”
“Know I don’t like Baggs.”
“Gee, I feel the same way about it. I wish I could talk with Len Ayres, Minnie. He wears blue shirts and red handkerchiefs. I seen him the other day, but he didn’t see me. What do you suppose Mr. Baggs meant about him maybe goin’ back to prison in a month?”
“Maybe,” grunted Minnie. “He don’t say sure.”
“Uh-huh. I guess maybe I’ll have to see him.”
“I guess I go make pie. You go play with kids.”
“Don’t want to play with kids. I want to be a cowpuncher, Minnie.”
“Go ahead,” grunted Minnie. “Good job.”
Larry wandered away. He didn’t want to play with the other boys; so he wended his way down to the sheriff’s office, where he found Breezy Hill, the deputy. Breezy was long-faced, bony of face and body, with bushy eyebrows and a shock of sandy hair, which stood up like the roach on a grizzly bear. One side of his face bulged with a huge chew of tobacco most of the time.
“Hyah, Larry!” he called, when the boy stopped in the doorway.
“Hyah,” grinned Larry. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Meditatin’ on my sins,” seriously.
“What’s a sin?”
“A sin?” Breezy spat thoughtfully, and Larry came in beside the desk. “That’s kinda hard to answer, Larry. But it ’pears to me that a sin is somethin’ we all want to commit, but we’re scared of what folks will say.”
“Would folks say somethin’?”
“Would they?” explosively. “Good gosh. I’ll say they would! I’d almost bet that ninety per cent. of the conversation of folks deal with the sins of somebody else. You know what I mean? They talk about the wrong things somebody else has done.”
“Like that talk about my dad?”
Breezy blinked thoughtfully for a few moments. “Yeah,” softly. “I reckon. You don’t remember him, do yuh?”
“Does that make any difference, Breezy?”
“Yo’re a queer little cuss, Larry. What do yuh mean?”
“He remembers me, don’t he?”
“Well, if he don’t!”
“Mr. Baggs says I must stay with Mr. Prentice, or I’ll be a charge on the county.”
“Amos Baggs said that, eh? You ain’t payin’ him for advice, are yuh, Larry? Yuh know a lawyer charges to tell folks what to do.”
“I didn’t pay him nothin’.”
“That’s the stuff! Don’t pay him anythin’. If he makes a yelp, you send him to me. I’ll bend a gun over his head.”
Larry stared at Breezy for a moment, wide-eyed.
“Wouldn’t that be a sin, Breezy?”
“Ord’narily it is, Larry; but when yuh pick the right person, it’s a favour to the rest of the world How’s yore—how’s Mr. Prentice to-day?”
“Drunk.”
“Yea-a-ah? Gosh, that’s somethin’ new.”
“I never seen him drunk before.”
“Huh!” Breezy masticated rapidly. He knew that Prentice had not been drunk for a long time, and he wondered why the cashier of the Lobo Wells Bank had fallen off the water wagon.
A man stepped off a horse at the little hitchrack in front of the office and came to the doorway. It was Len Ayres. Little Larry’s eyes were as big as quarters.
“Hyah, Len,” said Breezy pleasantly. “Whatcha know?”
“Nothin’ much, Breezy.”
Len came in, his spur chains jingling, looked sharply at the boy, and then at Breezy. It was the first time he had seen his son in over five years.
“Don’tcha recognise this young feller, Len?” asked Breezy.
Father and son looked at each other steadily. The boy was backed against the side of the desk, and it seemed as though he had stopped breathing.
“Yeah, I believe I do,” said Len slowly, and then held out his hand. “Hello, little pardner.”
Shyly the boy shook hands with him, swallowing heavily.
“Mighty nice kid,” said Breezy huskily. “Me and him have become good friends, Len. He’s smart.”
Len nodded slowly, his eyes on the boy.
“How are yuh, Larry?” he asked.
“I’m—I’m fine.”
“That’s great, Larry; you shore look good.”
“Looks jist like you, Len,” said Breezy.
For several moments none of them spoke.
Then the boy said: “My name ain’t Prentice; it’s Ayres.”
Len lifted his head and looked at Breezy.
“Mr. Baggs said I could have my choice,” continued the boy, “but he said if I didn’t stay with Mr. Prentice I’d be a charge on the county.”
Len winced, but the muscles of his lean jaws tightened. “Mr. Baggs said that, did he, Larry?”
“Just a while ago. He came out to see da—Mr. Prentice.”
“Oh, yeah. And what did Mr. Prentice say about it?”
“He didn’t say, because he was drunk and asleep.”
“Drunk?” Len looked questioningly at Breezy.
“Somethin’ new,” said Breezy quickly. “First time he’s been drunk in years, Len. The kid never seen him drunk before.”
“No, I never did,” supplemented Larry. “First time. He’s got two bottles with him.”
“And Mr. Baggs came out to see him, eh?”
“Oh, yes. He comes out there every little while. They’re good friends.”
Len nodded slowly.
“Do yuh go to school, Larry?” he asked.
“Yes; this was my second term. I’m in the second grade.”
“Gee, that’s fine. You don’t remember me, do yuh, Larry? No, of course yuh couldn’t.”
“I don’t remember you. Nobody ever told me about you, until the kids did.”
“What kids?”
“Oh, the kids I play with. They said they heard about you at home.”
“Oh, I see—heard about me at home. I’m sorry, Larry.”
“Sorry I heard about you?”
“Sorry forwhatyou heard about me.”
“It’s all right now, ain’t it? It was just a sin. Breezy says that sin is somethin’ we all want to do, but we’re scared what folks will say about us. You wasn’t scared, I guess.”
Len’s mouth sagged a little. Perhaps he never expected to hear this from the mouth of a little boy. He glanced sharply at Breezy, who seemed to be choking over his tobacco.
“No,” said Len softly, “I reckon I wasn’t scared, Larry, and I’m glad that you think it’s all right now. I don’t know of anybody I’d rather have feel thataway.”
“That’s fine,” said Larry. “The kids say you’ve got pots and pots of money buried somewhere, and you came back to dig it up.”
Len blinked rapidly, shook his head at Breezy, and walked back to the doorway, where he looked out at the street.
Larry walked over to him and touched his hand.
“You ain’t mad, are you?” he asked.
Len turned impulsively and took the earnest little face between his two big hands.
“No, I’m not mad, little pardner. I reckon I’ve got to stand for what folks say. It’s all right. Just don’t believe everythin’ yuh hear, ’cause it ain’t all true. When the devil paints some of us, he kinda leaves the colours to folks’ imagination, and some of ’em pick strong colours.”
“Did the devil paint you?”
“Yeah, I reckon he did, Larry.”
“You don’t look it.”
“That’s fine. It shows that you are my friend, Larry.”
“Don’t friends see those colours?”
“They wouldn’t be friends if they did, Larry.”
“Uh-huh. Well,” Larry sighed, “I suppose I better go home. Minnie will have dinner ready, and she’ll be callin’ me.”
“All right, pardner; I’ll see yuh later.”
They shook hands, and Larry went up the street, looking back at his father.
“Can yuh beat that, Len?” said Breezy, coming to the door to watch the boy out of sight.
“No, yuh can’t, Breezy. That kid is deep, I tell yuh. There’s a lot of stuff in his little head. But it don’t seem like he’s my kid. He was such a little geezer when I went away, and now he talks like a man. Breezy”—Len lifted his chin, the lines of his face tightening quickly—“I want that boy. I didn’t never think much about it since I came back. Seems that he’d growed away from me, but right now I want him. He’s a man’s boy, that little feller. But when yuh come right down to cases, I ain’t got no right to him; not with my reputation.”
“The law can’t stop yuh, Len. Charley Prentice never adopted him. He’s yore son.”
“Oh, I know that, Breezy. He’s only seven, and he don’t savvy what his dad—don’t savvy my reputation. After a while he’ll realise what it all means, and then mebbe he won’t have no respect for me.”
“That kid,” declared Breezy warmly, “won’t never go back on yuh, Len.”
“Shore nice of yuh to say that, Breezy. Mebbe yo’re right, but it’s a chance. What do yuh think of Prentice gettin’ drunk?”
“I dunno. Ain’t no crime, unless yuh go too far. A feller in his position hadn’t ort to drink much. But I reckon it’s his business. Lord knows, Prentice is old enough to know what he wants. How’s things at the Box S? What about that girl?”
Len shook his head, and a smile creased his lips.
“Who knows, Breezy? She don’t know a thing about the job. But she’s willin’ to admit it. Whisperin’ and Sailor are already quarrellin’ over her. But that’s nothin’ new; they quarrel over religion, politics, love and war. Whisperin’ is nice to the girl, and Sailor swears Whisperin’s in love with her. Neither of them realise that they are growing old. Sailor won’t have nothin’ to do with her.”
“I suppose she laughs at both of ’em, eh?”
“No, I don’t think so, Breezy. She ain’t that kind.”
“City girl, eh?”
“Oh, shore. She’s made me foreman. Said Baggs advised it.”
“Holy gosh! Baggs advised—oh, no, Len!”
“Well, she says he did.”
“What do yuh suppose struck him?”
“His ears burned, I reckon.”
Breezy thought it over for a moment, and laughed. “Yuh mean that somebody was talkin’ about him?”
“He knew somebody was thinkin’ about him, Breezy.”
“I don’t savvy it, Len, but that’s all right. Folks usually have to write it out for me. It kinda surprised me to hear that Baggs advised it. The whole country talked about the things he said at yore trial, and lots o’ folks said that you’d come back some day and squeeze his Adam’s apple until the juice choked him to death.”
Len laughed and shook his head.
“Baggs is worth more to me alive than dead, Breezy. Well, I reckon I’ll be travellin’ along. Be good, old-timer.”
“Same to you, Len.”
He watched Len mount his bay horse and ride out of town.
“Worth more alive than dead,” repeated Breezy to himself. “Now, what did he mean by that, do yuh suppose? Oh, well, he’s deep, Len is. If I was in his place, I’d never stop to consider the worth of anybody. But I shore pity Baggs if Len ever thinks his usefulness is over.”
Nan’s first week at the Box S was so interesting that she forgot to be lonesome. Len found a gentle horse for her to ride, and bought her a pair of overalls, shirt and wide hat at Lobo Wells.
Side-saddles were unknown in that country. She suffered in silence, and by the end of the week most of the soreness had subsided, giving her a chance to enjoy riding. Either Len or Sailor rode with her, and sometimes they both took her along. Sailor didn’t like it. He was woman-shy, and didn’t care who knew it.
Whisperin’ stayed at the ranch, doing the cooking and chuckling at Sailor’s discomfiture. Their arguments lasted far into the night, neither of them conceding a point.
It was Friday morning when Amos Baggs rode out again. Nan was alone in the house, but the men were down at the corral. Baggs sat down and inquired as to her health and the state of affairs at the ranch. He said he was sorry not to have been out sooner, but business had kept him in town.
“I’ve got everything fixed up at the bank,” he said, as he drew out a cheque and placed it on the table. “If you will just sign this cheque, Miss Singer.”
Nan looked at the cheque, which had been drawn in favour of A. A. Baggs for the sum of one thousand dollars. She looked at Baggs, her eyes a trifle wide.
“What is this for?” she asked.
“My fee for handling the case,” he smiled. “Just sign your name, and everything is fine.”
Nan hesitated, and a moment later Len came in. He had seen Baggs’s horse and buggy at the front of the house.
He nodded coldly at Baggs, stopping just inside the doorway.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Nan. “It—it doesn’t seem right for me to be signing cheques just yet.”
“What was it?” asked Len.
“Just a matter of signing a cheque covering my fee,” said Baggs coldly. “It doesn’t concern you, Ayres.”
“For how much?” asked Len, paying no attention to Baggs.
“A thousand dollars,” replied Nan.
“Don’t sign it. This will hasn’t been probated yet.”
“That makes no difference,” said Baggs hotly. “Everything is in order, as far as the will is concerned.”
“It’s never in order until the court passes on it, Baggs.”
Baggs got to his feet, his lean jaws working violently.
“Just what right have you to advise this woman, Ayres?”
“I’m her foreman, Baggs. She don’t know much about this business. She ain’t got no more right to sign that cheque than I have, and you know it.”
“Do you mean to say that I’ve got to wait another month, until court opens again, before I can get my just fees from this case?” Baggs laughed shortly. “What do you know about the law, Ayres?”
“Plenty. You take my advice and get off this ranch.”
Baggs almost exploded with wrath. “Me get off? Off this ranch?”
“Please don’t have any trouble,” said Nan hastily.
“It won’t be any trouble,” grinned Len. “Baggs knows it won’t, as well as I do. You pull out, Baggs. When that will has been probated properly, and Miss Singer has the right, she’ll sign yore cheque, but not before.”
Baggs left, and as far as they could see, and hear him, he was whipping the horse and talking to himself.
“Was that the right thing to do?” asked Nan dubiously.
“Sure thing,” smiled Len. “You don’t own this property until the court says the will is all right. Oh, there probably won’t be any argument about it in this country, even if you signed the cheque now, but you can’t be too careful. And that fee is pretty stiff in a small case like this.”
“I want to do the right thing,” said Nan softly.
“That’s fine. You don’t mind if I call yuh Madge, do yuh? Out in this country we usually call folks by their first names, yuh know.”
“I don’t mind, Len.”
“That’s a lot better.”
“But my folks always called me Nan. My name is really Madge, but”—Nan thought quickly—“they called me Nan.”
“Kind of a nickname, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I like it better than Madge. Fits yuh better.”
Baggs went back to town in a towering rage, his horse all a-lather, and turned it over to the stable-keeper, who was a trifle particular how his stock was treated.
“Didja win the race?” he asked Baggs sarcastically, but the Lobo Wells lawyer strode away without any reply.
“Acts like he’d lost two bits,” reflected the stableman, as he rubbed down the horse.
Baggs went back to his office and filled his pipe, but he was too mad to smoke. Breezy Hill came sauntering along and stopped in the doorway. Baggs glared at the deputy and went back to his pipe.
“If Charley Prentice don’t lay off the booze, he’ll see a lotta pink snakes pretty soon,” said Breezy.
“Are you his keeper?” asked Baggs.
“Well, I ain’t been appointed yet,” said Breezy calmly. “But he’s goin’ to need one if he keeps drinkin’.”
“I guess that’s his business.”
“Mebbe,” Breezy grinned widely. “You ain’t sick, are yuh, Amos? I seen yore buggy horse when yuh came in. You must ’a’ been in a hurry. Out at the Box S, wasn’t yuh?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
“Coil up and bite yourself,” advised Breezy, and walked away.
It was after banking hours, and Breezy found Lester Johnson, the bookkeeper of the bank, at the office talking with the sheriff about Charley Prentice.
“I don’t know what to do,” said Johnson. “I hate to notify the directors, but something must be done. Prentice has been drunk all the week. Keeps a bottle in the washroom. I can’t understand him, and he can’t understand anything.”
“I reckon the directors ort to know about it,” said the sheriff. “A man in his condition ain’t responsible. I’ll go and have a talk with him, before yuh do anythin’, Johnson.”
“That’ll be fine, sheriff.”
Later that afternoon the sheriff went out to Prentice’s home, but Prentice was asleep, doubled up on the couch in the living-room, fully dressed, badly in need of a shave and a haircut.
“What do yuh reckon is the matter with him?” the sheriff asked the Indian woman.
“Drunk.”
“That’s easy. But why is he drinkin’?”
“I dunno,” heavily. “Mebbe scared. Keep close to gun.”
“Scared, eh? What’s he—oh, yeah.”
It suddenly dawned on the sheriff that Prentice was afraid of Len Ayres. Prentice’s evidence had been instrumental in sending Len to prison, and a short time later he had married Mrs. Ayres. And now he was drinking himself blind through a fear that Len would do him bodily injury.
“Well, yuh can’t beat that,” he said aloud. “Yellow pup.”
“I dunno,” said the squaw, which absolved her of everything.
The sheriff went back and dropped in at the Oasis, where he met Harry Cole. Charley Prentice being uppermost in his mind, he told Cole that he had discovered why Prentice was drinking so heavily. Cole was interested.
“Prentice is yellow,” declared the sheriff. “I don’t think Len would ever hurt him, do you?”
“I doubt it,” said the gambler thoughtfully. “You think Prentice is yellow, Ben?”
“A streak up his back as wide as this street. His cook says he’s stayin’ close to a gun. That means he’s packin’ one, Harry. Johnson will prob’ly notify the directors and Charley will lose his job.”
“He ain’t notified ’em yet, has he?”
“Not yet. But he’ll have to pretty soon.”
“I suppose so.”
The mail had arrived a few minutes before the sheriff left the Oasis, so he sauntered over to the little post office, where there was usually a knot of men, waiting for distribution. Amos Baggs was there, but he looked so sour that the sheriff did not talk with him.
Baggs was one of the first to get his mail, and the sheriff idly watched him open an envelope and scan the contents. A blank stare overspread the face of the lawyer, succeeded by a sag of astonishment. He blinked rapidly several times, shut his teeth with a determined snap, and walked out, striking his shoulder against the side of the door as he made his rather blind exit.
“I’ll betcha that’s bad news,” said the sheriff to himself, as he headed for the little window, where the postmaster handed out the mail.
But the sheriff didn’t know half how bad it was. Amos went back to his office and flopped down in his chair, limp as a rag. He stared blindly at the wall for several minutes, before he took out that letter and looked it over again. It was from San Francisco, and read:
“Dear Baggs,—More tough luck and a scheme gone wrong. I’m in a hospital with a broken arm and some smashed ribs, but that is only part of it. The girl who was to work with you on that deal was instantly killed in the same accident. Sorry I couldn’t notify you sooner, but I’ve been in bad shape. Will write you more about it later.“Sincerely,“Jack Pollock.“P.S.—Tell Harry about it.”
“Dear Baggs,—More tough luck and a scheme gone wrong. I’m in a hospital with a broken arm and some smashed ribs, but that is only part of it. The girl who was to work with you on that deal was instantly killed in the same accident. Sorry I couldn’t notify you sooner, but I’ve been in bad shape. Will write you more about it later.
“Sincerely,
“Jack Pollock.
“P.S.—Tell Harry about it.”
Baggs crumpled the letter in his hand, scratched a match and applied it to the paper, after which he placed the paper on top of a cuspidor and watched it fade to writhing ashes.
His face was pale, and in his eyes was a queer expression of wonderment. Absently he picked up his pipe and lighted a match, but the pipe would not draw, and with a bitter curse he threw it across the room.
Finally he surged to his feet, stood for a moment, as though undecided, but finally locked his office and went across the street to the Oasis Saloon.
Manzanita County was not heavily populated, nor were there many towns, which possibly accounted for the fact that Lobo Wells was the county seat. Lobo Wells was really the head of the valley, at the north end, being situated near the mouth of Manzanita River, and almost against the hills. Manzanita River promised much, near its source, but as it flowed farther south the desert sands were too much for its existence, and it finally ceased to be a stream less than twenty miles south of Lobo Wells.
Fifteen miles due south of Lobo Wells was the town of Kernwood City on the bank of the fast fading stream, an outfitting place for a few scattering cattle ranches in that vicinity.
On the stage road to Kernwood City, below Lobo Wells, was the OK ranch, owned by Oscar Knight. Three miles west of Lobo Wells was the JP ranch, owned by “Silver” Prescott, the biggest ranch in the Manzanita country, while to the east, almost against the Broken Hills, was the Box S. Between the JP and the OK was the little Circle A, which had been owned by Len Ayres, but which his wife had sold to the JP. It was only a JP line camp now.
The Broken Hills were well named. Jagged cañons, towering, vermilion cliffs; a world on edge and on end, where still remained evidences of the cliff dwellers. Ten miles east of Lobo Wells was the Devil’s Punch Bowl, a miniature Grand Cañon, without inlet or outlet, almost round in contour.
It was the morning after Amos Baggs had received the letter from Jack Pollock. Harry Cole, ex-sheriff, now boss gambler of Lobo Wells, came down the stairs of the hotel and paused at the little counter to exchange a few words with the hotel-keeper, as was his custom, before going to breakfast.
Harry Cole had been a hard-riding cowpuncher before his election as sheriff, but his county office and his present occupation had smoothed off some of the rough edges and his huge frame was carrying extra weight. Perhaps liquor had something to do with it. Cole was not an early riser, because he did not retire early. He exchanged a few words with the man behind the desk, and his eyes idly roved over the dog-eared register, which usually remained open at the same page for weeks at a time. But this morning there were two strange names entered in a scrawling hand: H. Hartley and D. Stevens.
“Couple o’ cowpunchers,” explained the proprietor. “Got in late last night. Said they rode in from Kernwood.”
Harry Cole smoothed his moustache and lighted a cigarette.
“Train just got in,” said the proprietor, apropos of nothing whatever.
“I heard it whistle,” nodded Harry. He flung a match in the cuspidor, brushed off his fancy vest and walked to the doorway, where he stopped.
A man was coming up that side of the street, carrying a small valise, and Cole recognised him as John T. Grant, president of the Lobo Wells Bank, who lived in Randall, about fifty miles south-east of Lobo Wells. Grant was nearing sixty years of age, a kindly appearing man, with snow-white hair and a slight limp.
For years he had been in active charge of the Lobo Wells Bank, but for over six months he had transferred most of the work to Charley Prentice, while he conducted the business of the Randall Bank, owned by the same group of stockholders.
“Good-morning, Mr. Grant,” said Cole pleasantly.
“Oh, good-morning, Mr. Cole.”
The banker switched the valise to his left hand, while he shook hands with the big gambler.
“Yo’re quite a stranger around here,” laughed Cole.
“Yes, indeed.”
The banker sighed deeply and looked around.
“I came rather suddenly,” he said confidentially. “Perhaps you are in a position to give me a few facts regarding Charley Prentice.”
Harry Cole studied the face of the old banker curiously, wondering who had told him about Prentice.
“I have been informed,” said the banker sadly, “that Charley is drinking heavily and neglecting his work.”
“I don’t know anythin’ about the work,” said Cole.
“But you do know he is drinking?”
“Well, I don’t reckon it’s any secret, Mr. Grant.”
“Thank you. I’m very sorry, because I had implicit confidence in Charley Prentice. Do you know of any reason why he should suddenly take to drink, Mr. Cole?”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
“Thank you.”
The banker walked on and entered the bank. Charley Prentice was seated at his desk in a dejected attitude, and looked up at the banker through bloodshot eyes. He needed a shave and a haircut, and his collar was soiled, his necktie askew.
“Well, Charley,” said the banker coldly.
Prentice got to his feet, a crooked grin on his lips.
“Wasn’t looking for you to-day, Mr. Grant,” he mumbled.
“I suspected as much,” Grant said, dryly. He glanced around the bank, but no one was there, except Johnson, the bookkeeper, who was busy at his work. Prentice tried to straighten his tie, to adjust himself generally.
“I’m sorry, Charley,” said the old man slowly. “We’ve had some bad reports on you lately. At first I didn’t believe it, but when the report came again, I felt obliged to come and see for myself. I’d have staked anything on you, Charley.”
Charley Prentice’s face twisted foolishly.
“Well, what’s wrong?” he asked thickly.
“You’re drunk right now, Charley; unfit for work. Go home and sober up.”
“You mean—I’m fired?”
“That is what it amounts to, Charley. I’m sorry.”
Charley Prentice took a deep breath and looked around. Perhaps he was a trifle sorry too, but he was also mad. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets as he stood on unsteady legs.
“Fired, eh? That’s fine! After all, I’ve—who reported me? Who told you I was drunk, eh?”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Grant mildly. “It doesn’t seem to be any secret around here.”
“Doesn’t, eh? I’ll tell you who reported me—Len Ayres. He’s the one. By God, he said he’d get me. Well, he got me, didn’t he? Ha, ha, ha, ha! That’s fine. But I’ll fix him. I’ll show him if he can come back here and—well, well! So you believed him, eh? You took his word for things. He said I was drunk, and you believed him. Came sneaking in to find out, eh? Well, I’m not worrying about the job.”
“Charley, you better go home and sober up.”
“Sober? I tell you, I’m as sober as a judge! Look at me.”
“That’s the trouble—I can see you, Charley.”
Charley shrugged his shoulders and walked out, but he didn’t go to his home—he went to the Oasis. The old banker sat down at his desk and lit a cigar with trembling fingers. Lester Johnson, the bookkeeper, came over to him and shook hands.
“I’m sorry, too, Mr. Grant,” he said. “It was rather hard for me to send you those reports.”
“I understand. Is Len Ayres back here in Lobo Wells?”
“I hear he is, Mr. Grant. I don’t know him, of course.”
“Charley Prentice married his wife after Len was sent to the penitentiary for robbing this bank.”
“I have heard the story.”
“Ayres is a bad man, Johnson—a gunman.”
“Charley Prentice was taking a chance, don’t you think?” Johnson inquired.
“I suppose he was. Still, five years is a long time, and the woman was pretty. I understand that she left everything to Charley—everything she took from Len Ayres. The court awarded her everything in the divorce.”
“Broke Ayres, eh?”
“Financially. He’d be a hard man to break physically.”
“I think Prentice is afraid of him, Mr. Grant.”
“That may be why he is drinking. I’m really sorry about it.”
“I liked Prentice, Mr. Grant.”
“We all did; but business is business, Johnson.”
That same day Nan rode with Len Ayres. Sailor had a touch of rheumatism, which made riding a painful pastime, so he stayed at the ranch.
By this time Nan had become accustomed to the saddle, and was really enjoying the riding. Len had never had much to say to her about himself or his past, and most of his conversation consisted in explaining the duties connected with running a successful cattle ranch.
This particular day he was more quiet and thoughtful than ever. They rode westward from the Box S, crossed the railroad tracks and forded the river between Lobo Wells and the OK ranch. They followed the river for a short distance, but swung west again along a small stream, until they reached a tumbledown sort of a small cattle ranch.
They drew rein on a slope above the cluster of small houses, which were deserted, and Len studied them for a long time. Finally he turned to Nan, a whimsical smile in his greenish-gray eyes.
“There’s a monument to busted hopes,” he said slowly.
“I don’t understand, Len,” she said.
“No, that’s right; you wouldn’t,” he said gravely. “I don’t reckon many folks around here realise it. To them it’s just an old deserted ranch. The range country is full of ’em, Nan. But this one happened to have been mine—once. It was when I took a step upward from bein’ just a cowboy.”
“Oh, was this your ranch, Len?”
He nodded and began the manufacture of a cigarette.
“It’s a line camp for the JP now. They own it.”
“Why did you sell out?”
He sighed as he scratched a match on the leg of his batwing chaps and lighted his cigarette.
“I didn’t have much to say about it, Nan. The court gave my wife a divorce and all the property. She sold it.”
“Oh, that was too bad.”
“They call it justice, Nan. I had a nice start in cattle and horses.”
“I have heard some of it. Whispering told me part of it. She married a banker, didn’t she?”
“A bank cashier,” he nodded. “Quite a jump from the wife of a wild cowboy. But she was ambitious, I reckon.”
“Whispering said that she was very pretty.”
“I suppose she was. She knew it. That ruined her, Nan.”
“Knowing that she was pretty?”
“Shore,” Len smiled wistfully. “It spoiled her. When a woman finds out she’s pretty, she’s like a young man who finds out he’s a good shot. They’re both goin’ to hurt somebody before they get through.”
“I’m glad I’m not pretty, Len.”
He turned in his saddle and looked at her closely.
“No, you’re not pretty, Nan; but yo’re good-lookin’. You’ve got good eyes, pretty teeth and red hair. Some day, some feller is goin’ to think yo’re beautiful, and he’ll tell yuh. But you’ve got plenty sense, and yuh won’t break his heart, because yuh know yuh ain’t beautiful.”
Nan flushed hotly under his diagnosis. No woman cares to be told that she is not beautiful, even if she knows that it is the painful truth.
“Don’t get mad at me, Nan,” he said quickly.
“I’m not mad, Len.”
“That’s fine. I reckon I got kinda rough with yuh, but when I look down at that place I kinda lose faith in women and men. That’s where my boy was born, Nan. I remember that night so well. I rode for the doctor to Lobo Wells and got him out of bed. He wanted to hitch up his buggy horse, but I made him pile on to my bronc, ’cause we needed him bad.
“I said I’d hitch up his horse and foller behind. I was so excited that I plumb forgot that I was ridin’ a bad bronc, and about halfway between here and the town I picked up the doctor. He was scratchin’ matches in the middle of the road, tryin’ to find his medicine case. The bronc throwed him flat. But we got there in time.
“Oh, he was a fine little boy. I was the nurse. The cattle business went flat with me. We didn’t have no cook; so I done the cookin’ and the nursin’. This is the first time I’ve seen the old place in over five years, Nan—and it hurts. Memories hurt, even if they’re happy memories. Mine are both kinds.”
“Was she happy with this other man, Len?”
“Quién sabe?I hope she was, Nan. Everybody is entitled to happiness. Accordin’ to my viewpoint, she didn’t play square. She wasn’t happy nor satisfied for a long time. Nan, a woman has got to love a man to live with him in the range country. Not only that, but she’s got to sacrifice a lot. Girls who are born to it get along the best. They don’t know anythin’ else.”
“It is a lonesome life,” said Nan slowly. “But I think I could learn to love it, Len. The city seems so narrow beside this country. I could understand hate in a city, but not out here.”
“There will always be hate, as long as men live, Nan.”
“Did you love your wife, Len?”
He looked queerly at her, turned away and rubbed the palm of his right hand on his saddle-horn.
“I admired her, Nan. Mebbe I loved her. I loved my baby. She said I loved the baby more than I did her. Women get queer notions. Do you get queer notions, Nan?”
“About what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That was a foolish question. Didja ever have a sweetheart, Nan?”
“I suppose I have,” laughed Nan.
“Didja love him?”
“I don’t think I did, Len.”
“Uh-huh. My wife used to tell about the sweethearts she had. I reckon she kept quite a tally. But she said she never loved one, until she met me. If that was the case, God was mighty good to them other boys.”
“Did she sell everything you owned, Len?”
“Shore. I had a house in town, too. Wasn’t worth much, but she sold it. She took what money I had in the bank. Whisperin’ says she wasn’t satisfied with what she got. There was another bank roll, and she thought it was where she could get it, but it wasn’t in sight. Baggs, yore lawyer, wrote me a letter, askin’ where it was. I reckon she hired him to write the letter.”
“You didn’t tell him, did you, Len?”
Len smiled bitterly.
“No, I didn’t, Nan. I told him where he could go, but he didn’t take my advice. Queer jigger, that Baggs person.”
“Has he a good reputation, Len?”
He looked at her queerly.
“Why do you ask that question, Nan?”
“Just curiosity, I suppose.”
“I suppose I’m prejudiced, Nan. Yuh see, he sent me to the penitentiary. The evidence wasn’t so awful. They found my hat in the bank, after a robbery. Kinda foolish for a man to leave his hat, after robbin’ a bank, wasn’t it?” He smiled wryly at her, as he eased himself in his saddle.
“But Baggs is a bitter devil,” he continued. “He said a lot of dirty things about me durin’ that trial, and he made the jury believe ’em. I didn’t have any friends on that jury, Nan; Baggs saw to that, and Charley Prentice was the star witness. He swore he recognised me, and the judge sent me up for five years.”
“Why did you come back here, Len?”
“Why?”
“With all the bitter memories and the things against you.”
He looked at her, his greenish-gray eyes half-closed thoughtfully.
“Mebbe I came back to dig up the money they say I hid.”
“I’m sorry I asked that question, Len.”
“Oh, it don’t matter, Nan. Everybody wonders, I reckon. Well,” he picked up his reins, “I suppose I’ll dig it up some day. Hope to. Right now, it don’t look promisin’, but yuh never can tell.”
“Don’t you want to go down and look at the old place, Len?”
He shook his head quickly.
“I don’t think so. Whisperin’ told me that they tore up all the floors and dug all around, lookin’ for my cache. I s’pose every cowpuncher in this country has hunted for my buried treasure in the last five years. They can dig for five more, and never find it, Nan. Well, we might as well start back home.”
“All right, Len. Do you know, I was just wondering why Baggs asked me to make you foreman of the Box S, when he was so bitter toward you before.”
“Mebbe he felt sorry for me,” smiled Len.
“Perhaps,” doubtfully. “I wouldn’t trust him too far.”
“You wouldn’t? Well, I guess that’s right. Yuh see, I don’t trust anybody, Nan.”
“You’d trust me, wouldn’t you?”
He turned and looked squarely at her for a moment.
“Mebbe I’ll tell yuh about it sometime,” he replied enigmatically, and they rode slowly back toward the river.
Len’s reply worried Nan. Did he know she was an impostor, she wondered? She knew that Len had been very close to old Harmony Singer. Whispering had told her about the friendship between these two men for years, and that Harmony had looked upon Len almost as a son. She wondered what it was behind those greenish-gray eyes that caused Len to look so queerly at her at times.
If there had been any other claimants to the Box S Nan would have slipped quietly out of the country, but Whispering had told her that she was the only living relative of Harmony Singer, as far as he knew. Some one had to own the ranch.
She was afraid of Amos Baggs, but she did not know what his game was. And why did he ask her to keep Len Ayres, she wondered? Was Len in on the deal in some way? She had no one to talk with; no one to confide in. It was just a case of going ahead day by day, waiting to see what might develop, at least until the will had been probated.
Nothing more had been said about the cheque which Baggs had asked her to sign, but as they rode in at the Box S Len turned to her and said:
“Baggs is probably sore about yuh not signin’ that cheque for him, Nan; but you stick to it. After the will is probated, it’ll be all right. Stick as close to the law as yuh can—it’s the safest thing to do.”
“He can’t make me sign it,” smiled Nan, and Len looked sharply at her for a moment.
“No, I don’t reckon he can. Anyway, his price is pretty steep for just notifyin’ yuh. I suppose he got paid as he went along, and never ran any bills. But don’tcha worry about Baggs.”
“Oh, I’m not worrying about him, Len. I’d rather take your advice than his.”
“Well,” drawled Len, “I wouldn’t go so far as that, if I was you, Nan. He knows a lot about the workings of the law, while about all I know is the effects of it.”
Nan slipped to the ground and handed her reins to Len. “You shouldn’t remind yourself of that all the time, Len,” she said.
“I’ve got to,” he told her seriously. “Why, if I didn’t remind myself all the time of them five years, I’d go out and—and prob’ly get sent back again. Nan, don’t never do anythin’ that might send yuh to jail.”
He turned abruptly and started toward the stable with the two horses, leaving Nan rather breathless, looking after him. Came the soft drumming of the old triangle beside the kitchen door, and she turned to see Whispering grinning at her.
“Supper time, boss,” he said, his red face beaming like a full moon. “Amos Baggs came out to see yuh to-day, and me and Sailor shore sent him back home talkin’ to himself. First time I ever seen Amos Baggs with a skinful of liquor. Oh, he wasn’t drunk, but he had plenty. He was jist a mongrel when he showed up here, but me and Sailor shore sent him home with a pedigree.”
“Did he say what he wanted?” asked Nan.
“Never had no chance, ma’am. We didn’t listen—we talked. You hop into yore other clothes quick, ’cause them biscuits are due to rise out of the oven right now. Sailor felt so good over his talk with Baggs that he cut me plenty good wood for once in his rheumatic existence.”
“Was Mr. Baggs angry?” asked Nan.
“I dunno,” grinned Whispering. “But ’f he wasn’t, he’s shore deaf as hell or got a wonderful disposition.”