McLagan’s ranch was known as the “AZ’s.” It was a brand selected to illuminate his opinion of his own undertakings. He said that his ranch must be the beginning and end of all things in the cattle world, and he was proud of the ingenuity in his selection of a brand. The less cultured folk, who, perhaps, had more humor than respect for the Irishman, found his brand tripped much more easily off the tongue by replacing the Z with an S, and invariably using the plural.
“Say, Jim,” the rancher went on, buoyed with his own enthusiasm, “it’s been a great round-up. Seventy-five per cent. Bully! I’ll open out my scheme. Listen. Ther’s Donagh’s land buttin’ on us. Thirty sections. They got stations for 10,000 head of stock. We’ll buy ’em right out of business. See? I’m goin’ to turn those stations into double. That slice of land will carry me backing right up into the foot-hills, which means shelter for my stock in winter. See? Then I’ll rent off a dozen or more homesteads for a supply of grain and hay. You know I hate to blow hot air around, but I say right here I’m going to help myself to a mighty big cinch on Montana, and then––why, I’ll lay right on the heels of Congress.”
He looked for approval into the bronzed face of his companion. But Thorpe hesitated, while a shadowy smile lurked in his clear, dark eyes.
“That’s so,” he observed, with a suspicious quietness.
“Sure,” added the other, to clinch what he believed to be his companion’s approval.
“And then?”
The rancher stirred uneasily. The tone of Thorpe’s inquiry suggested doubt.
“And then?” McLagan repeated uncertainly.
“Why, when you’ve got all this, and you’re the biggest producer in the country, the beef folk in Chicago ’ll beat you down to their price, and the automobile folk will cut the ground clear from under your horses’ feet. You won’t hit Congress, because you won’t have the dollars to buy your graft with. Then, when you’re left with nothing to round-up but a bunch of gophers, the government will come along and have you seen to.”