CHAPTER VIII
The next morning at breakfast Noah Ezekiel remarked:
"I wonder where that skunk got the money."
"What skunk and what money?" Bob was pouring sirup on a pancake, a product of much patience both on his part and the Chinese cook's.
"Jenkins." Noah answered both questions in one word. "Not long ago he had to borrow a dime for a doughnut. Last night he was at the Red Owl gambling with both fists. And I heard he's bought altogether ten thousand acres in leases. 'Verily,' as dad used to say, 'the sinner flourisheth like a thorn tree.'"
"Do you know if he has bought Chandler's?" Bob asked, casually, not meeting Noah's eye.
"No, but I reckon he will. He seems out for a clean-up."
"If you see the Chandlers," suggested Rogeen, "advise them not to sell."
Noah Ezekiel reached for the towel to wipe his mouth, and shook his head.
"I ain't strong on giving advice. I believe in doin' as you'd be done by, and most all the advice I ever got was as hard to take as castor oil. Advice is like givin' a dog ipecac—it may break him of suckin' eggs, but it sure is hard on the dog."
Bob laughed and got up and started to work.
The first Saturday in June Rogeen and Noah quit at noon, for the rush was over.
"I reckon," Noah insinuated, suavely, "if you are feelin' right good I might strike you for another five to-night."
"Certainly," said Bob. "But look here, Noah, you ought not to gamble away your wages."
Noah Ezekiel pulled a long face.
"You sound like my dad. And I ain't fully persuaded you are enough of a saint to preach."
"You are incorrigible, Zeke," Bob laughed. "And I think I'll go with you to-night to the Red Owl."
Noah shook his head. "I wouldn't advise it. Gamblin' ain't to be recommended to employers. It's liable to put wages in japordy."
"I am not going to gamble," said Bob. "I am looking for a man—a couple of them, in fact."
Reedy Jenkins had returned to his office about two o'clock after making a complete circuit of his leases. The crop looked fine—so everybody told him. He knew little about cotton, but Ah Sing was a wonderful farmer—he knew how to handle the Chinese labourer.
Then he looked at his watch and frowned. He wished that blankety-blank Mexican would be more prompt in keeping his appointments. He wanted to get away. He was to drive to El Centro for a visit with Mrs. Barnett and then to-night he would return for a little recreation across the line.
It was nearly four when Madrigal finally appeared, wearing an expensive white summer suit and a jaunty straw hat. "He is a handsome devil," thought Reedy, eying him with disfavour because of his lateness. The Mexican took off his straw hat attached to a buttonhole by a silk cord, and pushed up his black pompadoured hair.
"Have you got the Chandler ranch yet?" Jenkins came directly to the point.
"Not yet, señor." Madrigal's bold, dark eyes smiled with supreme confidence. "Not yet—but soon."
The Mexican stood up and returned his hat to his head. He put up his hands as though strumming a guitar, turned up his eyes languishingly, and hummed a flirting air.
"If this, señor," he said, breaking off, "does not win the señorita, we will try—what you call hem—direct action. You shall have your ranch, never fear."
"And that damned Rogeen—what of him?"
The Mexican smiled sinisterly. "He get news tonight that make heem lose much sleep.
"Now may I trouble Señor Jenkins for fifty dollar?"
Reedy grumbled, but paid. The Mexican lifted his hand, pressed it to his heart, and bowed with mocking gallantry.
"Until to-night, señor."
