"Uh-huh," commented Johnny. "Do you know where th' tally sheets are?"
"If you mean the books, they are on a shelf in the house."
"Ma'am," he said, earnestly, "I wonder if you would mind copyin' off what there is about th' number of cows on th' ranch after th' last trail herd left, th' year before you took possession? An' how many cows there was this spring, or th' number of calves branded then?"
"Why do you want this?" she demanded. "Why should I go to that trouble, or tell you such things?"
"I don't know," he answered, "less'n you want to. You see, I'm curious about things, too. It's a failin' most humans have, a bad failin'. An', before I forget it, I'm goin' to ask you another: Judgin' from them posts down there along th' river, that's a quicksand. Why ain't there more wire strung to keep th' cows out of it?"
"Because it is torn off as fast as it is put up. We have given up the effort; it is useless. If you only knew—" she checked herself, but the tears of helpless anger in her eyes could not be kept from forming.
"That's just it, Ma'am—if I only knowed," he replied, nodding. "I know a lot about that, but not about th' number of cows you have lost. I'm what you might call morbid, an' like to grieve about calamities. Would you mind gettin' them figgers for me? I'll be here about ten o'clock tomorrow for 'em, if you will."
"Yes; but why do you want them?" she demanded.
"I'm aimin' to put th' fear of God where it ain't been knowed for a long time, Ma'am," he answered, "an' be rewarded by th' company."
"What company?"