Buck grunted. “Well, Frank Shumway went to the pen; I was sorry, too——”
“Oh, sure!” commented Murphy sarcastically. “Made you weep a lot, huh?”
“Shut your blamed mouth!” retorted Buck, acid in his voice. “Here’s the point: Young Shumway had mortgaged the hull place to some cussed bank over in Laredo County—some bank the ol’ man had knowed. Well, he give Estella the money, y’ understand, and went to the pen. Estella, she’s run the place since, but it ain’t paid her.”
“She’s his sister, eh?” Mr. Murphy’s red, aggressive features spread into a greasy grin. “Well, I reckon it ain’t paid her, with you fer a neighbor! But go on, go on.”
“Don’t let your brain git too agile, Murphy,” said Buck, tossing down his whisky and pouring another drink. “The place has run down. All she’s got there now is Miguel Cervantes and his woman, helpin’ her. Not a head o’ stock left.”
“You done well, then,” put in Murphy, who stood in no awe of his companion evidently. “You sure done well! Ol’ Shumway had a powerful lot o’ cattle. Least, he had when I was down here, time the boy got caught and sent over the road——”
“Times have changed since then,” said Buck hastily. “As I say, Stella can’t make the place pay, in spite of everything. Cervantes——”
“Done heard of him in the Panhandle. Ain’t he the greaser with a big rep——”
Buck emitted a lurid oath.
“He’s the one, all right—the cussed greaser! Got a rep, and everybody’s scared to lay into him. Well, they lost stock, y’ understand; the place is run down; and now it’s near time for the mortgage to be paid—which it won’t.”