Gary gave him a little, secretive smile and the slight head-shake that always went with it on the screen.
“Well, I sure hope you never do—see.” And with that he deliberately changed the subject and refused artfully to be led back toward it.
He went in and started the fire going, saying that he knew a man couldn’t drive out from Las Vegas without being mighty hungry when he arrived. He made fresh coffee, warmed over his pot of Mexican beans cooked with chili peppers, and opened a can of blackberry jam for the occasion. He apologized for his biscuits, which needed no apology whatever. He went down to the creek and brought up the butter, bewailing the fact that there was so little of it. But then, as he took pains to explain again, he had not expected to stay so long when he arrived.
James Blaine Hawkins warmed perceptibly under the good-natured service he was getting. It was pleasant to have some one cook his supper for him after that long drive across the desert and it was satisfying to his vanity to be able to talk largely of his plans for running Johnnywater ranch at a profit. By the time he had mopped up his third helping of jam with his fourth hot biscuit, James Blaine Hawkins felt at peace with the world and with Gary Marshall, who was a fine young man and a good cook.
“Didn’t make such a bad deal with that girl,” he boasted, leaning back against the dish cupboard and heaving a sigh of repletion. “Kinda had a white elephant on her hands, I guess. Had this place here and nobody to look after it. Yes, sir, time I’d talked with her awhile, she was ready to agree to every damned thing I said. Got my own terms, ab-so-lute-ly. Five years’ contract, and two thirds the increase of stock—cattle and horses—two thirds of all the crops—and found!”
“Get out!” exclaimed Gary, and grinned when he said it. “I suppose there are such snaps in the world, but I never saw one. She agreed to that? On paper?”
“On paper!” James Blaine Hawkins affirmed solemnly. He reached into his coat pocket (exactly as Gary had meant that he should). “Read it yourself,” he invited triumphantly. “Guess that spells Easy Street in less than five years. Don’t it?”
“It’s a bird,” Gary assured him heartily. Then his face clouded. He sat with his head slightly bowed, drumming with his fingers on the table, in frowning meditation.
“What’s wrong?” James Blaine Hawkins looked at him anxiously. “Anything wrong with that contract?”
Gary started and with a noticeable effort pulled himself out of his mood. He laughed constrainedly.