“That junk?” he said contemptuously, with a laugh that failed to reach his shrewd eyes. “Wal, the only thing makes me feel good about that is he’s stung McCrae, the implement boy around hyar, good an’ plenty. That guy McFardell’s a shyster. But it don’t make me feel more bad about him that he’s stung McCrae. I ain’t no kind o’ use fer the machinery bosses o’ this country. It ain’t I’ve a grouch against machinery. It’s their ways o’ tradin’. There’s folk reckon to close down every darn liquor joint in the whole of this blamed continent. I tell you right hyar our trade couldn’t harm a louse compared with the ‘crop mortgage’ system o’ pushing machinery on to crazy guys o’ new settlers who don’t know better.”
He shrugged his burly shoulders, and his eyes snapped. “He’s lit out, as I guessed he would. An’ he was slick over it, too. He drove in at dark, nigh three weeks back, an’ his wagon was full up of his fool kit. I didn’t see him, but I got the story good. He’d sold one of his plugs, an’ his two lousy cows, an’ his wagon, before he got in. He drew his stuff fer that. Then he held a sort o’ auction amongst the boys he was used to playin’ ‘stud’ with for his outfit. The thing I make out is they acted white by him. They handed him better money than I would. Anyway, he got away with it, an’ then wrote out a piece tellin’ McCrae where to collect up the machinery he’d stocked him with, and he could snatch his land for the money owin’. That he passed in through the mail office. And come mornin’ he’d quit Hartspool with his saddle-horse, an’ he ain’t bin around sence.”
Lightning drained his second glass of Rye, and set it empty on the bar.
“Quit the territory?” he inquired simply.
“Maybe. Can’t say.” Barney was wiping glasses, which seemed to be a habit with him in the absence of any more amusing occupation. “He ain’t bin around, anyway. An’ seein’ he’s the sort o’ shyster he is, why, I guess he’d be right here on the bum till his dollars ran out—if he was around.”
“You reckon he’s beat it,” mused Lightning, fingering his empty glass. Then he looked up. “You best pass that bottle again. I’m feelin’ kind o’ mean.”
Barney laughed with his twinkling eyes this time.
“I ain’t ever known you to feel any other way when you blow along into this burg, Lightning,” he said amiably. “Hev this one on me. You’re the sort of boy I like gettin’ around. You get an’ elegant souse down your spine, an’ quit. That’s how a boy should take his liquor.”
He filled up the old man’s glass with raw spirit, and Lightning’s feelings warmed towards him.
“Do I reckon he’s beat it?” Barney went on, putting the bottle away. “Surely I do. An’ if you ask me, I’d say he’s begun the hoboe trail. It mostly starts that way. Dollars an’ a hoss. Later, no hoss. Then the freight cars. An’ when he can’t ‘jump’ them he’ll need to pad the railroad ties. That’s him. A sure hoboe.”