“Yes; it will. I don’t see but you must go down with money enough not only to pay up the final fees, but to file on the land again in case of the agent’s refusal.”
“Will that take more than the fees would amount to?” I inquired.
“Bless you, yes! I don’t know jest how much, but a right smart. How much have you got now?”
It needed no reckoning to tell the sum total of our painfully garnered hoard. Mr. Wilson shook his head when Jessie named the sum total. “Not enough; not enough, by half! And, as the worst luck will have it, I’m clean out of money myself jest now. I declare, I don’t see where my money all goes! It don’t ’pear to matter how much I may have one day, it’s all gone the next; beats all, it does!” He looked at us solemnly, sitting with his lips pursed up, his hair standing bolt upright, and his brows knit over the problem of his own financial shortage, yet, to one who knew him, no problem was of easier solution. Up and down the length and breadth of the valley, in miner’s lonely cabin, in cowboy’s rough shack, or struggling rancher’s rude domicile—wherever a helpful friend was needed, Mr. Wilson was known and loved, and, if money was needed, all that he had was freely given. So it was no surprise to learn that he was suffering from temporary financial embarrassment at a time when he would have liked, as usual, to help a friend.
“Say,” he suddenly exclaimed, starting from his troubled reverie; “in order to make all safe, you’ve got to have money enough to file on that land when you go down; there’s no ‘if’s’ nor ‘and’s’ about that! Your father would never ’a’ hesitated a minute about borrowing the money for such a purpose, if he had it to do. Now, Jim Jackson—over Archeleuta way—he’s owing me quite a consid’able. I’ll go over there to-day and see what I can do with him. He’ll help us out if he can, but he’s been having sickness in his family, and maybe he can’t; we’ll have to take our chances. I do’ no’s a hold-up is ever justifiable,” he continued, with a humorous twinkle in his bright eyes; “but if it is, this would be one of the times. I hope we won’t be drove to that!”
He took his departure shortly after, going back home to exchange his team—to the detriment of his own affairs, I’m afraid—for a saddle-horse, the better to perform the somewhat hazardous journey up “Archeleuta way,” but, before going, he enjoined us, if we had any written proof of Jessie’s coming of age on the morrow, to look it up and have it in readiness to offer in evidence, in case the fact were questioned.
“Your coming of age to-morrow is of so much importance that it seems almost too good to be true,” he said, earnestly.
So, after he had gone, Jessie took the big family Bible down from the book shelf, and, opening the book, turned to the pages where the Gordon family record had been carefully kept for many years. We knew, of course, that there could be no mistake, but it was pleasant to see the proof of our security in indisputable black and white.
“I’m afraid that Mr. Wilson will get nothing out of the Jacksons,” Jessie remarked, as we turned away from a prolonged inspection of the record; “he has had bad luck, and I heard, the other day, that Ted had broken his arm.”
“I’m not going to be afraid about anything now,” I declared valiantly. “I’m sure we’ll come out all right. Mercy on us! What was that?” I broke off, as a chorus of mingled outcries came to our ears. Outside the doorway there appeared to be, judging by the sound, a lively commotion, in which cat, dog, and boy were each bearing a part. We ran out in alarm and found Ralph just picking himself up off the ground upon which he seemed to have been thrown with some force.