The Irishman’s face grew scarlet, and he began to splutter, but Jim Thorpe went on mercilessly.
“Cut it out, boss. We’re cattlemen, both of us. You’ve grown up to cattle, and I––well, I’ve acquired the habit, I guess. But cut it out, and put your change into automobiles. They aren’t things to breed with, I guess. But I’d say they’d raise a dust there’s more dollars in than there’s beans in our supper hash.”
The rancher’s swift anger had gone. He shook his head, and his hard, blue eyes stared out through the doorway at the busy life beyond. He could see the lines of buildings packed close together, as though huddling up for companionship in that wide, lonesome world of grass. He could see the acres and acres of corrals, outlying, a rampart to the ranch buildings. Then, beyond that, the barbed wire fencing, miles and miles of it. He could see horsemen moving about, engaged upon their day’s work. 11 He could hear the lowing of the cattle in the corrals. As Thorpe had said, he had grown up to cattle. Cattle and horses were his life.
He was rich now. This was all his. He was growing richer every year, and––Thorpe was prophesying the slump, the end. He couldn’t believe it, or rather he wouldn’t believe it. And he turned with a fierce expression of blind loyalty to his calling.
“To h––– with automobiles! It’s cattle for me. Cattle or bust!”
Thorpe shook his head.
“There’s no alternative, boss. I can see it all coming. Everybody can––if they look. There’s nothing between grain farming and––automobiles. The land here is too rich to waste on cattle. There’s plenty other land elsewhere that’ll feed stock, but wouldn’t raise a carrot. Psha! There won’t be need for horses to plough, or even haul grain; and you’ve got 15,000 head. It’ll be all automobiles!”
“I’d ‘scrap’ the lot!” added the Irishman, briefly and feelingly. Then he glanced at his companion out of the tail of his eye. “I s’pose it’s your education, boy. That’s what’s wrong with you. Your head’s running wheels. You come into cattle too late. You’ve got city doings down your backbone, and I guess you need weeding bad. Say, you’re a West Point man, ain’t you?”
Thorpe seemed to shrink at the question. He turned aside, and his eyes rested for a moment on the portrait nailed upon his wall. It was only for a moment his dark eyes encountered the tender old eyes that looked out at him from the faded picture. Then he looked again at the owner of the “AZ’s,” and gave him a smiling nod.