“Two miles!” exclaimed Judge Ware, aghast. “Why, it’s just over that little hill, there. Why don’t you take a short cut?”
“The trail is the shortest cut I know,” replied Hardy, concealing a smile. “That’s the way the cattle go, and they seem to know their business. How does the country look to you?”
But the old judge was not to be led aside by persiflage––he was interested in the matter of trails.
“Cattle trails!” he exclaimed. “Do you mean to say that you do all your travelling on these crooked cow paths? Why, it is a matter of scientific observation that even on the open prairie a cow path loses nearly a quarter of its headway by constant winding in and out, merely to avoid frail bushes and infinitesimal stones. Now if you and Jeff would spend a little of your leisure in cutting trails, as they do in forestry, you would more than save yourselves the time and labor involved, I’m sure.”
“Yes?” said Hardy coldly. There was a subtle tone of fault-finding in his employer’s voice which already augured ill for their debate on the sheep question, and his nerves responded instinctively to the jab. Fate had not been so kind to him that day, that he was prepared to take very much from any man, and so he remained quiet and let the judge go the whole length.
“Why, yes, if you would stay about the ranch a little closer instead of going off on these armed forays against sheep––now just for example, how much would it cost to clear a passable trail over that ridge to the ranch?”
He pointed at the hill which in his misguided enthusiasm he had been mounting, and Hardy’s eyes glittered wickedly as he launched his barbed jest.
“About a billion dollars, I guess,” he answered, after mature consideration.