“You know, Gary. I just love you to be Western; but I want you to be real Western—my own range hero. Not cheap, movie make-believe. I want you to get out and live the West. I can close my eyes and see you on a cattle ranch, riding out at dawn after your own cattle—doing your part in increasing the world’s production of food—being something big and really worth while!”
“Can you? You’re a good little seer, Pat. Golly, grandma! I wish I’d saved half of that shortcake to eat after a while. Now I’m so full I can’t swallow a mouthful of smoke. What’s the surprise, kid? Don’t hold the suspense till the interest flags—that’s bad business. Makes the story drag.”
“Why, I’m telling you, Gary!” Patricia opened her eyes at him in a way that would have brought any movie queen a raise in salary. “It’s just that you’re going to have a chance to live up to what’s really in you. You’re going to manage a cattle ranch, dear. Not a real big one—yet. But you’ll have the fun of seeing it grow.”
“Oh-ah-h—I’ll have the fun—er-r—all right, Pat, I give it up.” Gary settled back again with his head against the cushion “Tell us the joke. My brain’s leather to-night; had a heck of a day.”
“The joke? Why, the joke is—well, just that you don’t get it! I knew you wouldn’t, just at first. Think, Gary! Just close your eyes and think of miles and miles of open range and no fences, and herds of cattle roaming free. Picture a home ranch against the mountains, in a cañon called—let’s play it’s called Johnnywater. Are you doing it?”
“Uh-huh. I’m thinking——” But he sounded drowsy, as if he would be asleep presently if he continued holding his eyes shut. “Open range and cattle roaming free—there ain’t no such animal.”
“That’s where the big surprise comes in, Gary. Listen. This is the most important thing that ever happened to either of us. I—I can hardly talk about it, it’s so perfectly wonderful. You’d never guess in a million years. But I—well, read these papers, Gary boy—I’ll explain them afterwards.”
Gary opened his eyes somewhat reluctantly, smiled endearingly at the flushed Patricia and accepted two legal-looking documents which she proffered with what might almost have been termed a flourish. He glanced at them somewhat indifferently, glanced again, gave Patricia a startled look, and sat up as if some one had prodded him unexpectedly in the back. He read both papers through frowningly, unconsciously registering consternation. When he had finished, he stared blankly at Patricia for a full minute.
“Pat Connolly, what the heck is this trick deed? I can’t feature it. I don’t get it! What’s the big idea?”
“That’s just a deed, Gary. The cattle and the brand and the water right to Johnnywater Spring, and the squatter’s right to the pasturage and improvements are all included—as you would have seen if you had read it carefully. The other paper is the water right, that he got from the State. Besides that, I have the affidavits of two men who swear that William Waddell legally owned one hundred head of cattle and the funny X brand, and that everything is all straight to the best of their knowledge and belief.