“Who’s the man?” I ast.
The widda pulled a piece of paper outen her hand-satchel. “Frank Curry,” she answers.
Bergin give a jump that come nigh to tippin’ the table over. (Ole Skinflint Curry was the reason.)
“And where’s the ranch?” I ast again.
“This is where.” She handed me the paper.
I read. “Why, Bergin,” I says, “it’s that place right here below town, back of the section-house–the Starvation Gap Ranch.”
The sheriff throwed me a quick look.
“I hope,” begun the widda, leanin’ towards him, “–I hope they’s nothin’ agin the property.”
Fer as much as half a minute, neither of us said nothin’. The sheriff, a-course, was turrible flustered ’cause she ’d spoke direct to him, and he just jiggled his knee. I was kinda bothered, too, and got some coffee down my Sunday throat.
“Wal, as a chicken ranch,” I puts in fin’lly “it’s O. K.,–shore thing. On both sides of the house–see? like this,” (I took a fork and begun drawin’ on the table-cloth) “is a stretch of low ground,–a swale, like, that keeps green fer a week ’r so ev’ry year, and that’ll raise Kaffir-corn and such roughness. You git the tie-houses of the section-gang plank in front–here. But behind, you’ possessions rise straight up in to the air like the side of a house. Rogers’s Butte, they call it. See it, out there? A person almost has to use a ladder to climb it. On top, it’s all piled with big rocks. Of a mornin’, the hens can take a trot up it fer exercise. The fine view ’ll encourage ’em to lay.”