He went back to the table and picked up an official-looking letter. It was a communication from Robb Chillingwood, written on the municipal notepaper of Ainsley.
He read the letter carefully through.
“My dear Mr. Iredale,”
“There is a man named Gordon Duffield stopping at the hotel here, who has lately arrived 206 from Scotland. I have effected the sale of the Dominion Ranch––you know, the German, Grieg’s, old place––to him. He is a man of considerable means, and is going in largely for stock-raising. He has commissioned me to buy something like five thousand head of cows and two-year-old steers for him. His bulls he brought out with him. You will understand the difficulty I shall have in obtaining such a bunch of suitable animals; and I thought you might have some surplus stock that you wish to dispose of at a reasonable price. You might let me know by return if such is the case, always bearing in mind when you make your quotations that the gentleman hails from old Scotia. There is shortly to be a great boom in emigration from both the old country and the States, and I am now combining the business of land agent with my other duties, and I find it a paying concern. Let me know about the cattle at your earliest convenience.
“Yours truly,
“Robb Chillingwood.”
Iredale smiled as he read the letter over.
“Comes at an opportune moment,” he said to himself. “Surplus stock, eh? Well, I think I can offer him all the stock he needs at a price which will meet with the approval of even a canny Scot. I’ll write him at once.”
He seated himself at his table and wrote a long letter asking Chillingwood to come out and see him, and, at the same time, offering to dispose of the stock of Lonely Ranch. He sealed the letter, and then returned his account-books to their hiding-place 207 behind the bookcase. Then he went to the door and summoned his head man.
In spite of the habit of years, Iredale was not without a strong sense of relief as he reviewed the progress of the disestablishment of the ranch. He remembered how narrowly he had escaped from Leslie Grey less than a year ago, and now that he had begun to burn his boats he was eager to get through with the process.
The ferret-faced Chintz framed himself in the doorway.
“My horse!” demanded his master. “And, Chintz, I want you to take this letter to Lakeville and post it with your own hands. You understand?”
The little man nodded his head.