“Getting near it,” Smoke encouraged. “And better than that.”
“Two potato-ranches? A cheese-factory? A moss-farm?”
“That's not so bad, Shorty. It's not a thousand miles away.”
“A quarry?”
“That's as near as the moss-farm and the potato-ranch.”
“Hold on. Let me think. I got one guess comin'.” Ten silent minutes passed. “Say, Smoke, I ain't goin' to use that last guess. When this thing you're buyin' sounds like a potato-ranch, a moss-farm, and a stone-quarry, I quit. An' I don't go in on the deal till I see it an' size it up. What is it?”
“Well, you'll see the cards on the table soon enough. Kindly cast your eyes up there. Do you see the smoke from that cabin? That's where Dwight Sanderson lives. He's holding down a town-site location.”
“What else is he holdin' down?”
“That's all,” Smoke laughed. “Except rheumatism. I hear he's been suffering from it.”
“Say!” Shorty's hand flashed out and with an abrupt shoulder grip brought his comrade to a halt. “You ain't telling me you're buyin' a town-site at this fallin'-off place?”