“No, sir. But some of these men have been remembered in father’s will, and I want to pay them up.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Wallace. “Well, then, what’s the reason you can’t pay them right here? It will make a less load for you to carry.”
“Now, Mr. Wallace, I have got something to say about that,” said Mr. Chisholm. “Not one cent do you give the men so long as we are in the reach of bug-juice. I want them to go home with me as straight as when they came away.”
“All right. What shall we do with this money?”
Mr. Chisholm immediately stepped forward, and under his supervision the money was equally distributed so that each had an equal weight to carry, but I noticed that Lem and Frank didn’t get any of it. They were the ones who were much too fond of “bug-juice.” They winked at me, but said nothing.
“Now, Mr. Wallace, I am done with probating wills,” said Mr. Chisholm. “You made me sign as guardeen for a boy that is as well able to take care of his money as I am, and put my name to checks for which I am not at all responsible, and I don’t like your way of doing business.”
“Don’t you want some money yourself?”
“No, sir, not a red cent. The drought is over now——”
“This has been fearful weather, hasn’t it?” asked Mr. Wallace, anxious to get Mr. Chisholm off on his favorite topic.
“Fearful! You follow the dead cattle that we left behind while on our trip to the West Fork of Trinity, and you can go straight to my house. We left a trifle of over three million dollars on the plains, and that’s a heap of money to come out of poor men’s pockets. I wish you good-day, sir.”