Sidwell looked out on the narrow street meditatively. "I think that cowboy exhibition," he went on slowly, "was the most typically American scene I have ever witnessed. The recklessness, the dash, the splendid animal activity—there's never been anything like it in the world." His eyes returned to Ben's face. "Ever hear of Gilbert, did you?"
"I live within twenty-three miles of him."
Sidwell looked interested. "What ranch, if I may ask?"
"The Right Angle Triangle we call it."
"Oh, yes," Sidwell nodded in recollection. "Rankin is the proprietor—a big man with a grandfather's-shay buckboard. I saw him while I was there."
Involuntarily one of Ben's long legs swung over the other. "That's the place! You have a good memory."
Sidwell smiled. "I couldn't help having in this case. He reminded me of the satraps of ancient Persia. He was monarch of all he surveyed."
Ben said nothing.
"He's still the big man of the country, I presume?"
"He is dead."