“No, but I got brains, and I can buy sheep.”
“Go buy ’em then!” he snaps, “I’m from Missouri—me.”
Muley rides away in the general direction of his heart’s desire, and I gets an inspiration. Over in St. Marie’s basin is plenty of sheep, and I never saw a sheep-man yet what wouldn’t sell out. I like Muley. Dog-gone his irresponsible heart, I like him. His mind ain’t big enough to contemplate a hundred thousand dollars, and I feels glad for him that he’s got a friend like me to make good for him.
I may be rewarded for my efforts, and maybe not, but anyway I’ve always wanted to handle big money, and show to the world that Henry Peck could be more than he’s ever showed.
I saddles up Glory and puts a pack on Blazer, and leaves a note for Muley, telling him that I’ll be back on the fatal day to save him from ruin. Little Henry is going to be a hero, and hopes to do his heroing on a commission basis.
I pilgrims over into a country that cowmen designates as being a fair example of the place where sinners will reside in the hereafter, and eats mutton and talks sheep.
Believe me I could talk sheep faster than the men that owned the herds, and I confides in ’em about Muley’s inheritance. Of course I didn’t tell it all, but anyway I got options on enough sheep to cause Yaller Rock County to build an extra wing on the insane asylum, and said options didn’t cost me a cent.
“Old Testament” Tilton rides back with me. I’ve spent about fifteen thousand of Muley’s credit with him, and being a minister, he’s a little suspicious of his fellow-men.
“I ride with you for the good of my soul,” orates the old boy, when he offers to accompany me.
I reckon that when a shepherd goes into cow-land, it’s like taking a ship into fresh water to knock off the barnacles.