"No, none to speak of. My father took the bankrupt law and paid his debts ten years afterwards."
Blakemore lighted a cigar. "Did you disown him?"
"No. He went to the springs, grew pale—and we buried him."
Blakemore turned his cigar about between his lips. "And your idea is to pay your debts, grow pale, and let them bury you. Is that it?"
"Not exactly," and then he added: "I owe a peculiar sort of debt."
"A man's foolish to pay a peculiar debt," Blakemore replied.
"But a peculiar debt might take a strange hold on the conscience."
"Yes," Blakemore agreed, "but a tender conscience has no more show in business than a peg leg has in a foot-race. Do you know what I did? I moped about under a debt of twenty thousand dollars. After a while I looked up and didn't see anybody else moping. I quit. Am I going to pay it? Maybe, but not till the last cow has come home, I'll tell you that. They scalped me, and I'm going to scalp them. By the way, I met a fellow just now—fellow named Dorsey. You might have seen him out here. Met him a while ago, and he told me that a horse kicked him over yonder in the woods. Didn't do a thing but kick his teeth out. He's gone to town to have his jaw attended to. Your horse?"
"No, a horse that Dorsey hired when he was out some time ago. He must have misused him."
"He got in his work all right. Well, I've come after you. They want you at the house. Rig yourself up; I'll wait."