“Well, I’ll take my chances on you,” answered Creede placidly. “What did the old judge say?”
“He says you did fine with the cattle,” said Hardy, “and sold ’em just in time––the market fell off within a week after we shipped.”
“Um-huh,” grunted Creede. “And what’s the bad bunch of news at the end?”
The bad bunch of news was really of a personal nature, stirring up unpleasant memories, but Hardy passed it off by a little benevolent dissimulation.
“He says he’s mighty glad I steered the sheep away, but there is something funny going on back in Washington; some combine of the sheep and lumber interests has got in and blocked the whole Forest Reserve business and there won’t be any Salagua Forest Reserve this year. So I guess my job of sheep-wrangler is going to hold; at least the judge asked me to stay with it until Fall.”
“Well, you stay then, Rufe,” said Creede earnestly, “because I’ve kinder got stuck on you––I like your style,” he added half apologetically.
“All right, Jeff,” said Hardy. “Here’s another letter––from my father. See if you can guess what it is like.”
He set his face rigidly and read the short letter through without a quaver.
“You and the Old Man have had a fallin’-out,” observed Creede, with a shrewd grin, “and he says 139 when you git good and tired of bein’ a dam’ fool you might as well come home.”