“Sure, boss. I intended to go into the engineers.”
“Ah––wheels.”
“You see, we’ve all been soldiers, since way back when my folks came over with the first lot from England. Guess I’m the first––backslider.”
“Nope. You ain’t a backslider, Jim Thorpe. I sure wouldn’t say that. Not on my life. Guess you’re the victim of a cow-headed government that reckons to make soldiers by arithmetic, an’ wastin’ ink makin’ fool answers to a sight more fool questions. Gee, when I hit Congress, I’ll make some one holler ‘help.’”
The foreman’s smile broadened.
“’Twasn’t exams, boss,” he said quietly. “I’d got a cinch on them, and they were mostly past cutting any ice with me. It was––well, it don’t matter now.” He paused, and his eyes settled again on the portrait. The Irishman waited, and presently Jim turned from the picture, and his quizzical smile encountered the hard blue eyes of the other.
“You said just now my head was full of wheels,” he began, with a humorous light in his eyes that was yet not without sadness. “Maybe it is––maybe it has reason to be. You see, it was an automobile that finished my career at West Point. My mother came by her death in one. An accident. Automobiles were immature then––and––well, her income died with her, and I had to quit and hustle in a new direction. Curiously enough I went into the works of an automobile enterprise. I––I hated the things, but they fascinated me. I made good there, and got together a fat wad of bills, which was useful seeing I had my young cousin’s––you know, young Will Henderson, of Barnriff; he’s a trapper now––education on my hands. 13 Just as things were good and dollars were coming plenty the enterprise bust. I was out––plumb out. I hunched up for another kick. I had a dandy patent that was to do big things. I got together a syndicate to run it. I’d got a big car built to demonstrate my patent, and it represented all I had in the world. It was to be on the race-track. Say, she didn’t demonstrate worth a cent. My syndicate jibbed, and I––well, here I am, a cattleman––you see cattle haven’t the speed of automobiles, but they mostly do what’s expected. That’s my yarn, boss. You didn’t know much of me. It’s not a great yarn as life goes. Mostly ordinary. But there’s a deal of life in it, in its way. There’s a pile of hope busted, and hope busted isn’t a pleasant thing. Makes you think a deal. However, Will Henderson and I––we can’t kick a lot when you look around. I’m earning a good wage, and I’ve got a tidy job––that don’t look like quitting. And Will––he’s netting eighty a month out of his pelts. After all things don’t much count, do they? Fifty or sixty years hence our doings won’t cut any ice. We’re down, out, and nature shuts out memory. That’s the best of it. We shan’t know anything. We’ll have forgotten everything we ever did know. We shan’t be haunted by the ‘might-have-beens’. We shall have no regrets. It’ll just be sleep, a long, long sleep––and forgetfulness. And then––ah, well, boss, I’m yarning a heap, and the boys are out on the fences with no one to see they’re not shooting ‘craps.’”
The rancher turned to the door.
“I’m going out to the fences meself,” he said, shortly. Then he went on: “There’s a dozen an’ more three-year-olds in the corrals needs bustin’. You best set two 14 o’ the boys on ’em. Ther’s a black mare among ’em. I’ll get you to handle her yourself. I’m goin’ to ride her, an’ don’t want no fool broncho-buster tearing her mouth out.”
“Right-ho, boss.” Jim was smiling happily at the man’s broad back as he stood facing out of the door. “But, if you’ve half a minute, I’ve got something else to get through me.”