When everything was going so smoothly with him, it was a great pity that those of whom he had a right to expect better treatment, could not let him alone. Pretty soon warning letters began to arrive from Mr. Gilbert, with whom George had kept up a constant correspondence ever since he had been on the river. The first one conveyed to him the information that Uncle John had discharged Jake and Bob, and all the other herdsmen who had found employment on the ranche during his father's lifetime, and hired others in their places.
"That's some of my affectionate cousin's spite work," said George to himself. "But he can't injure me in that way. One herdsman is about as good as another, and when I return to Texas, if I ever do, I can get all those old-time fellows back again. It wouldn't seem like home to me there without them."
In another letter, which George received about two months later, Mr. Gilbert told him that three very fine herds had been lost through the imprudence or criminality of the men in charge of them, who, in spite of the warnings of the settlers, persisted in pasturing them too close to the river for safety.
"That's a more important matter," thought George. "It looks too much as though Uncle John was paying Fletcher hush-money. I must see to that."
He thanked Mr. Gilbert for keeping so watchful an eye on his interests, and took Uncle John to task for losing those herds in a way that made him and Ned very angry. Two months more elapsed and a third letter told George that his uncle was selling stock as fast as he had the opportunity. He thanked Mr. Gilbert again and wrote to his uncle.
"Have you forgotten the agreement made between us during our second interview at the hotel in Brownsville? I shall be down there to see about your selling stock, which you were positively forbidden to do, and I shall call upon you for a strict account of your stewardship."
George had intended to quit the river at once, and go home and assume charge of his property with Mr. Gilbert for a guardian; but unfortunately Mr. Black was taken ill about the time he had made up his mind to start. He was not so ill that he was obliged to take to his bed, but he was not able to stand his regular watch. Moreover, he was in such a state financially that idleness meant ruin to him.
"I don't see how I can spare you just now," said he, when George told him that his presence was needed at home. "I know I ought not to run on the river, but when I look at my pocket-book, it tells me I must. If you will only stay with me a little while longer, I shall be ahead of the hounds; but if you leave me now, I don't know what I shall do."
"Well, don't worry over it," said George, after Mr. Black had talked to him in this way a few times. "I'll stay. I can better afford to lose a little more through Uncle John, than Mr. Black can afford to lie idle with all those notes to meet," he added, to himself. "But just as soon as he gets firmly on his feet, I shall start for Texas, to look into my guardian's way of doing business."
The last boat that George Ackerman ever backed out from a St. Louis wharf-boat, was the Sam Kendall—a crazy old craft, all paint and gilt outside, but "rotten to the heart," as the rivermen said. If she had been a sea-going vessel, she would have been called a "coffin ship." By this time, Mr. Black had so far recovered his strength that he was able to do a little duty, and he hoped that by the time he returned to St. Louis, his health would be fully restored. George had resolved, that if these expectations were realized, his piloting should end with this trip on the Kendall.