He knew nothing beyond—cattle. Cattle was the sum and substance of his celibate life. He was an old type of ranchman whose waking hours were devoted to a physical labor which left no room for anything else. But Jeff knew that for all his roughness of manner and speech, a roughness which left his own partner, Bud, a man of education and refinement beside him, he counted his wealth, as he, Jeff, could only hope to count his in the distant years to come.
Jeff was his guest for the night, and the dispute upon which he was to arbitrate was to be settled upon the arrival of the man Peters. And while they waited they talked of the thing which was their mutual interest. The land and its produce, whether animal or vegetable, was their beginning and end. They discussed every prospect from the overwhelming competition of the Argentine, to the rapid transformation of grazing pastures into golden wheat fields. Their interest seemed endless, and it seemed only to require the non-appearance of Peters for their talk to continue until sleep overtook them.
But the break came in the flow of their "shop" at the mention of the name of Peters. Jeff was curious to hear about him.
"Who is this Peters, anyway?" he demanded. "He's not down in the stock register, and nobody seems to have found him except you."
Dug's reply came with a great laugh. His very bright gray eyes were full of a good humor beneath his pronounced black brows.
"Peters? Why, I guess Peters 'ud make a funeral procession laff. You've never seen him? You don't know him? No. Sure you wouldn't. Nor you wouldn't find him registered. Y'see, they don't register mixed farm stock. Anyways, he got me laffin' all the time. But he's bright—oh, yep, he's bright, sure. He's a little feller. To git him right you need to think of a buck louse with a think-box developed abnormal. He's a great amusin' little cuss when you see him on his patch of land. You'd think he was runnin' a cirkis he's so busy fixin' things wrong. I'd like him fine if it wa'an't fer his habits. I can't stand the feller who eats the top of his fingers raw, an' sings hymns o' Sunday in a voice that never oughter been handed out to anything livin' that hadn't the sense to choke itself at birth."
"Is that the reason of the dispute?" Jeff asked with smile.
Dug grinned and shook his head.
"No, siree," he cried. "It ain't a thing to do with it. But I guess we'll keep clear of the dispute till he gets around. Y'see, this arbitration game needs to be played good. I'd hate to get ahead of the little cuss by settin' out my case in private. Nope. I hain't got a thing agin that grasshopper. Not a thing, and I jest need to get this thing straightened right, even if it goes agin me. That's why we fixed on appealin' to you rather than the law. Y'see, I could buy up a decision at law, which Peters knows, so we decided on the right judgment of a straight feller. Say, what in——!"
Dug sprang from his chair with a forcible oath. Jeff, too, was on his feet. There was a frantic clatter beyond the screen of creeper. A string of hoarse invective in a human voice. The hammering of horses' hoofs and the sound of tin being battered in a wanton riot. Dug broke into a great laugh as he thrust his head out.