Zen, walking with a limp, met them at the gate. Transley’s eyes reassured him that he had not been led astray by any process of idealization; Zen was all his mind had been picturing her. She was worth the effort. Indeed, a strange sensation of tenderness suffused him as he walked by her side to the door, supporting her a little with his hand. There they were ushered in by the rancher’s wife, and Zen herself showed Transley to a cool room where were white towels and soft water from the river and quiet and restful furnishings. Transley congratulated himself that he could hardly hope to be better received.
After supper he had a social drink with Y.D., and then the two sat on the veranda and smoked and discussed business. Transley found Y.D. more liberal in the adjustment than he had expected. He had not yet realized to what an extent he had won the old rancher’s confidence, and Y.D. was a man who, when his confidence had been won, never haggled over details. He was willing to compromise the loss on the operations on the South Y.D. on a scale that was not merely just, but generous.
This settled, Transley proceeded to interest Y.D. in the work in which he was now engaged. He drew a picture of activities in the little metropolis such as stirred the rancher’s incredulity.
“Well, well,” Y.D. would say. “Transley, I’ve known that little hole for about thirty years, an’ never seen it was any good excep’ to get drunk in.... I’ve seen more things there than is down in the books.”
“You wouldn’t know the change that has come about in a few months,” said Transley, with enthusiasm. “Double shifts working by electric light, Y.D! What do you think of that? Men with rolls of money that would choke a cow sleeping out in tents because they can’t get a roof over them. Why, man, I didn’t have to hunt a job there; the job hunted me. I could have had a dozen jobs at my own price if I could have handled them. It’s just as if prosperity was a river which had been trickling through that town for thirty years, and all of a sudden the dam up in the foothills gives away and down she comes with a rush. Lots which sold a year ago for a hundred dollars are selling now for five hundred—sometimes more. Old ranchers living on the bald-headed a few years ago find themselves today the owners of city property worth millions, and are dressing uncomfortably, in keeping with their wealth, or vainly trying to drink up the surplus. So far sense and brains has had nothing to do with it, Y.D., absolutely nothing. It has been fool luck. But the brains are coming in now, and the brains will get the money, in the long run.”
Transley paused and lit another cigar. Y.D. rolled his in his lips, reflectively.
“I mind some doin’s in that burg,” he said, as though the memory of them was of greater importance than all that might be happening now.
Transley switched back to business. “We ought to be in on it, Y.D.,” he said. “Not on the fly-by-night stuff; I don’t mean that. But I could take twice the contracts if I had twice the outfit.”
Y.D. brought his chair down on to all four legs and removed his cigar.
“You mean we should hit her together?” he demanded.