Neighbor sat down with an air of relief.
“You don’t need no doctor. It’s yourself you’re trying to be kind to. Go on with your talk. For a starter—what would I do with my own cattle?”
“Sell, get a friend to run them; let them out on shares. You wouldn’t need to worry about the mortgage. It could stand over—you’ll be getting good money. And,” said the financier diffidently, spacing the words and dropping his voice to tones singularly flat and even, “if—everything—went—all—right, the—mortgage—might—be—canceled.”
“Yes? How jolly! But what’s the matter with the west-side cowmen? Can’t you get some of the V T waddies? Should think you’d rather use home talent.”
Bennett resumed his measured pacing. At the end of each beat he turned, always away from Neighbor’s eyes, so that he marked out a distinct figure eight. Other men, unhappy debtors, had walked that narrow space, many of them; perhaps none so fiend-ridden as he who now tracked back and forth. The jeers of this uncringing debtor galled him to the quick, yet his purpose drove him on.
“We have been having a little trouble on the ranch. For many reasons I do not think it wise to get a local man.” He coughed gently, and went on in the same low and listless manner of speech he had used in his hint about the mortgage. “Trouble was between my boys and the Quinliven outfit—the Double Dee—about one of my watering places. I have no legal title, but the spring is mine by all the customs of the country. There was some shooting, I believe. No one was hurt, fortunately, but there is hard feeling. I must put a stop to it. For his part in the deplorable affair I let my foreman go—Tom Garst. Know him?”
“Sure!”
“So I thought I would get you for the place.”
“Me being a notorious peacemaker and cheekturner, suffering long, and kind, not easily provoked—yes, yes!”
“Quinliven himself would be willing to let the matter drop, I think; but young Roger Drake—why, you know young Drake—he was one of your poker party!”