"Why, I didn't know that you had a care in the world. As Polo Garrett used to say, 'What's eatin' ya?'"
"My problem is my family. I'm the only one left that is able to do things. There is little I can do to aid the ones that are sick and I am making no progress in keeping these two big, clumsy ranches out of bankruptcy.
"Father, as you know, is in the hospital in Omaha and mother was called there three weeks ago. The trivial ulcers have developed into something worse. Daddy went to Omaha to be near the market that was tumbling, crashing, and bringing on bankruptcy to stock raisers. He hoped to find a solution, hoped to learn that the end of the disaster was in sight. He had been cutting production for four years; surely a period of scarcity was at hand, he wanted to be ready.
"Meanwhile he consulted a specialist on a matter of stomach ulcers, only to encounter a more serious condition. A dozen years ago, in one season, he had sold eighty thousand dollars worth of livestock from these two ranches. Just now, he has sold breeding stock until there's little left. Now these recent sales were made not to get money, but to reduce the supply, to meet conditions. Money needs were not serious until both banks failed two years ago, and then it became a calamity. And now, my young counselor, adviser, flatterer, and friend, do you think I should seek a job in the congested areas?"
"Well, it does appear that you are involved in a lot of responsibility, and surely have a big problem on your hands. You speak of two ranches. Where's the other one?"
"Really, it's all one," the girl explained, "but Grandaddy keeps up the pretense of operating one of his own—wants to compete with Father in management—in livestock, in methods. It's the Old Pioneer versus the Progressive. Longhorn versus thoroughbred, and Daddy indulges and encourages him in the plan.
"You see, Grandfather had settled on Grant's Fork (that's about four miles west); he had built a cabin and stables, long before the surveyors came. 'They surveyed me in,' was his frequent statement. And there he lived and carried on until Father grew up, married, and built this home. Grandfather registered his cattle brand as the Bowline. It is a bent bow with a taut string. Father carried the same brand, but folks began calling it the B-line and both ranches go by that name. And it's really one to the outsider. The difference in methods and in management is best illustrated by the fact that in the fall, Grandfather takes a week to drive his finished product to the pens at the railroad siding, while Father trucks a full carload over there in the early morning.
"But in all these years there never was any distinction in ownership of property or chattels. If Grandfather wanted a stack of hay or a roll of fencing he came and got it. He would call on Daddy's men for help as freely as he would call his own. They paid each other's bills without any accounting and there was never any friction, until now. Now, the problem of all these past years is dumped right in my lap. I don't know how to handle it. I am desperate for advice, so desperate that I now seek the counsel of the Oracle of the Footlights, the Mystic of the Sawdust Ring. Wilt thou help me, Sire?" concluded Adine, as she bowed in mock distress to the little man squirming on the footstool.
"Well, I don't see that you need help. You've done all that is needful and possible. You can't heal the sick, stop a financial depression, or retard old age, but you've left nothing undone. Your problem is already solved."
"We haven't reached the insoluble part," said Adine gravely. "I've just given you the details leading up to it. I have shown that there were two ranches, two plans of management, an intermingling of assets, and never the least bit of friction. Yet there is one thing in which they are as far apart as the two poles: Father always banks his money, and Grandaddy never did. It doesn't seem possible for a person to live as long as Grandfather has and not use a bank. Back in the early days, he wore a money belt with gold in it. In later years he had what he calls a keyster, a metal box with lock and key where he keeps paper money. He is not a miser; he pays bills promptly and gives generously. The keyster was never hidden. It might be left on the table or mantel or, because of its weight, it might be used as a door prop. So far as I know, no one ever cheated him, and surely no one had the nerve to try to take it by force.