“It doesn’t seem possible that any one could consistently lose money in real estate in a thrifty, growing burg like New York, does it? Uncle Roger did. Then he ducked again.
“Some ten years later, back to New York—who comes here? Is it my long-lost uncle? It is. Talked vaguely of holdings in New Mexico. Had the mazuma, and spent it. He stayed all winter; then back to New Mex. That’s been the program ever since—four to six months in New York, the rest out here. But he didn’t talk about New Mexico and he didn’t urge us to visit him there.
“To do him justice, he made good on one point. He came through with good hard coin for dad. He was really very fond of poor old dad, and he’d always been sore at himself about losing dad’s wad. And, as I said, he put his ungrateful nephew through school.
“Two months ago we found him dead in his bed—heart disease. His will left all his property to me unconditionally. But where and what was his property? He hadn’t told us; and naturally dad hadn’t felt like asking him.
“Saragossa was his post office. Except a pass book for his New York bank we found no papers in his effects—not so much as a letter. We applied at the bank.—Ahem! Huh? Mr. Drake had opened an account with them years ago; the balance was so much—about one winter’s spending for Uncle Roger. We pressed ’em a little. Very irregular, said the bank; but, under the circumstances—ahem! It had been Mr. Drake’s custom to make one large deposit each year, checking out the greater part of it before he put in more. What was a little unusual, he generally made these deposits personally and in cash; sometimes—ahem!—there had been drafts from Albuquerque or El Paso.
“So there we were! How much property? According to the pass book, Uncle Roger had been spending, on the average, about seven thousand a year, including his two extravagances—father and yours truly. Said property was evidently in the grand new state of New Mex. But where, what and how much? Had Uncle Roger spent all his income or only part of it? All of it, we judged; for, with all respect to your so wonderful Southwest, my Uncle Roger thought life in any place more than half an hour away from Broadway was a frost. If he stayed there only four months in the year, it was because supplies didn’t hold out.”
“I knew of your uncle—never saw him,” said Neighbor. “He lived very quietly. Stayed at the ranch mighty close; made no friends and no enemies. No mixer. Had no visitors from the outside. Hunted a little. No cowman. He didn’t know anything about cattle, he wouldn’t learn anything about cattle, and he didn’t care anything about cattle. Left that all to his partner. That’s his rep, according to campfire talk. One thing’s certain—your uncle didn’t make any seven thousand per from the ranch, or any big part of it. The Double Dee outfit doesn’t sell three hundred steers a year. Your uncle only got half of that and paid half the expenses. No, sir—that Double Dee brand helped some, but it was mostly a blind for something else.”
“That’s what I’m headed for,” said Ducky. “Dad’s an invalid; so I came out. At Albuquerque Mr. Drake had bought drafts at the banks. The hotels knew him but none of the business men had ever heard of him. El Paso, ditto. So he couldn’t have been engaged in any business openly, aside from the ranch. I came to Saragossa. You know what I found here. Uncle Roger’s whole bunch of cattle would have made about a year’s pocket money for him. His partner offered me ten thousand for my half of ranch and cattle. That’s enough to keep the wolf from the well-known door, but hardly what was expected.”
“Grab it! That’s more than it’s worth. I know. Jim-Ike, my new neighbor, worked that country last year.”
“Quinliven—Uncle Ducky’s pardner—showed me the tally book. According to that, my share would be about that much.”