“Sheep—always sheep! Take a look at this.”
He hands me a letter—the one what Paddy brought him, and I looks her over. The brand opines it to be from Milwaukee, and the top of the letter proclaims that Frederick & Quincy are lawyers. She listens something like this:
Dear Sir:
It grieves us to inform you that your aunt, Miss Agnes Allender, of this city, died on the fifth day of August, 1900.
According to her last will and testament, you, which she designates as her favorite nephew, will inherit the bulk of her estate, which is valued at about one hundred thousand dollars.
As you likely know she was a very eccentric person, and her will imposes you as follows: without receiving a cent of said inheritance you must, before the fifteenth day of August, 1900, have invested four-fifths of said hundred thousand dollars in sheep.
She also designates that: the said Lemuel Allender Bowles must not marry for the space of five years under penalty of forfeiture of entire inheritance. Also that he take a care for Alfred and Amelia for the rest of their natural lives. All of the foregoing requests must be complied with or my estate is to be divided between charitable institutions aforementioned in my will.
On the fifteenth day of August, 1900, our representative will call on you and examine your investments. We wish you luck.
I hands it back to him, and goes on working.
“Well,” says he, sort of choking-like, “don’t I get congratulated?”
“As soon as I gets time I’m going to feel sorry for you, Muley. How in thunder can you invest eighty thousand dollars around here, when everybody knows you ain’t got a cent, and everybody hates sheep. You can’t get married for five years, and you’ve got to feed, water and groom Alfred and Amelia all the rest of their natural lives. Wonder what them twin-sounding things are, Muley?”
Muley sets to thinking it over, and folding and unfolding that letter:
“Since you sympathized with me, things don’t look so rosy,” he admits, with a deep sigh. “Reckon I missed that marrying part. If Alfred and Amelia got a fair start they ought to be about due. Reckon I’ll ride down to Paradise—dang the luck! I’ve torn that letter plumb in two!”
He puts the two pieces in his vest pocket and goes off down to the corral.
The longer I thinks things over the harder it looks for Muley. Muley ain’t got the reputation of a saint around here, and can’t even lie so folks will believe him. Zeb owns all the visible supply of sheep, and Muley ain’t got no time to spare if he’s going to make good.