“Well, no, I reckon I wouldn’t, come to think it over,” the old man answered dryly. “At least, when I was twenty-five I sho’ wouldn’t. At my age, now, I c’n see the wisdom of side-steppin’ trouble. Still, yo’ better quit the Seventy Seven soon as yo’ get to yo’ destination, providin’ yo’ and Mark both do get there all right.”
“I certainly aim to do both.” Rock smiled. “Mark’s welcome to flourish, so long as he don’t step on my corns too frequent. I want to get into this North country. I hear there’s chances there for a fellow with a little money. Time I’ve worked another year I’ll have a couple of thousand dollars. I might find a place where I could start in with a hundred cows or so, and grow up with the country.”
“When yo’ get around to that, let me know,” the banker said. “I hear good reports of that Montana country. I might put in some money if yo’ locate a range. Texas is full up. She’ll spill a heap of stock and men into the Northwest in the next five years. Cattle grow into money tol’able fast.”
That was an indubitable fact. Sayre, as Rock knew, was a cattle owner as well as a banker. And Texas was getting crowded. That was why the longhorns were swarming North and West to free grass and plentiful water, like droves of horned locusts. They were grazing year by year farther afield into regions dotted by the bones of the buffalo, bleaching where they but lately fell before the rifles of the hide hunters. Rock promised that he would remember the suggestion. They talked a while longer desultorily. Then a clerk asked if Mr. Sayre was busy. A man wanted to see him. Rock rose to his feet.
“Sit still,” Sayre told him. To the clerk he said: “Tell him to come back in half an hour, and I’ll see him.”
And when the door closed again he put both feet up on his desk, looked Rock over with an appraising eye, and said:
“Fact is, young man, I sent fo’ yo’ because I want yo’-all to do something fo’ me when yo’ hit Montana. The question is, will yo’? Yo’ the man I want fo’ the job. Yo’-all will be well paid, and yo’ sho’ will be doing yo’ Uncle Bill Sayre a favor.”
“Name your poison,” Rock said lightly. “What is it you’d have me do? I’m open to any kind of engagement, Uncle Bill. So long as you don’t aim to have me bushwhack some enemy for you and mail you his scalp.”
Sayre grinned. Then he grew sober.
“This is strictly confidential, son,” said he. “First off, do yo’ know the Maltese Cross? Dave Snell’s outfit. Used to range on the west fork of the Trinity.”