The Plow-Woman Part 34

_Five_ hunderd."

Braden pursed his lips, his thumbs in his armholes again. "Three hunderd and fifty, say," he compromised. "_I'd_ be willin' t' give you _that_."

A moment since, the section-boss had been downcast. Now, he guffawed.

"_Would y'?_" he asked; "_would y'?_" There was a sage gleam in his eye.

"I would."

Lancaster sucked his teeth importantly. "Y' couldn' hev it a cent short o' seven hunderd an' fifty," he declared.

"You'll never get it, sir, _never_. Five hunderd's a spankin' figger."

"Bah!"

"Telling you what's what. There's thousands of acres around here just as good as your'n any day in the week. But you got this end of the ford.

That makes a little difference."

"Makes 'bout fifteen hunderd dollars' diff'rence."

It was Braden's turn to laugh. "My friend, you'll hist to two thousand pretty soon," he warned; and arose. "Better take five hunderd and fifty when it's offered." He flung out his hands as if he were feeding hens.

Lancaster got up with him, righteously angry. "Say, _you_ ain't no South'ner," he cried. "Jes' a slick Yank. Ah c'n see through you like winda-pane!"

Braden laughed again, tapping the shoulder of the section-boss. "You ain't wise," he confided. "Farmin' out here with cows around means fences. But hang on if you want to. It's your land." He ended this with a jovial slap, and made for the door. From it, he could see the girls.

He gave them a magnificent bow. "Mornin', mornin'," he said, and walked out.

Lancaster went back to the hearth, fairly weak with delight. Dallas and Marylyn joined him. "W'at d' y' think!" gurgled their father. "Say, he ain't got th' sense he ought 'a' been born with!"

"Don't like him," Dallas declared.

"Pig eyes," suggested Marylyn.

At that the section-boss calmed. "Wal," he said, "he's as good anyhow as slop-over soldiers."

Meanwhile, Braden was on his way to The Trooper's Delight, his face glum, his step quick, his arms cutting the air like propellers. When he lumbered into it, he creaked up to the plank bar and helped himself to a finger of whisky. Then he propped himself on an elbow and stood scowling into the rear of the room.

From the gaming-table sounded the raillery of a dozen men. Matthews was there, heels up, hat tipped back, a cigar set between his little teeth.

"What y' givin' us," cried one of his companions. "You're drunk, Nick--plumb drunk."

Braden listened, turning away. An advertis.e.m.e.nt of brandy hung from a shelf on the far side of the bar. He toyed with his goblet, his eyes fixed on the gaudy, fly-specked picture.

"I _ain't_ drunk," Matthews declared. "I _never_ been drunk. My stomick ain't big 'nough to hold the _reequissit_ amount."

There was more laughter. The interpreter, well pleased with himself, surveyed his audience, pointing the cigar, now up, now down, so that its glowing end threatened to burn his shirt collar, or, tilting skyward, all but singed what there was of a tow eyebrow.

"And that ain't the best part of the story," he went on. "As I was sayin', not a darned pound of ice was left in Boston. Well, what d' y'

think my old man does? He rents the fastest coast-steamer he can find.

Then, he goes 'way up north in the Atlantic and lays-to with his weather eye open. Day or two, long comes a' iceberg big as a house. And by----, he hitches to it, and Boston gits ice!"

And now, like a ponderous bobcat descending upon its prey, Braden stole soft-footed across the room. "Nick!" he said. His jaws came together with the click of a steel trap.

Matthews lowered his heels. "Jumpin' buffalo!" he cried in amazement.

"Al Braden! Where'd _you_ come from?" He took the other's hand, at the same time pulling him slowly toward the door. Away from the crowd, they brought up.

"Well, _you're_ a nice one!" was Braden's answer. "You're a _nice_ one!

Lettin' that Bend slip through your fingers!"

All the interpreter's c.o.c.ksureness was gone. He threw the cigar into the sand-box under the stove, and looked on the verge of following it.

"Say, _you_ talk of fleecin'," taunted Braden. "Why, you been skinned clean's a whistle! And by a' old fool duffer from Texas!"

"I was at Dodge when he come," snarled Matthews, finding his voice.

"What you go streakin' off to Dodge for, after the tip I give?"

"Well, no one here was talkin' railroad. So I, well, I----"

Braden addressed the ceiling, his fat hands outspread. "No one here was talkin' railroad, no one here was talkin' railroad?" he mimicked.

"--So I didn't put much stock in your letter."

"You didn't, eh?" Braden searched a coat-pocket, found a newspaper clipping and thrust it under Matthews' nose. "Well, read that."

"Read it yourself," said Matthews. "You know blamed well----"

Braden interrupted him by beginning. He lowered his voice, and intoned, giving the interpreter a glance designed to wilt him with the words that called for stress:

"'The proposed line will open up a country of rich _gra.s.ses_ and _ground_ and of unexcelled _hunting_. The Indians, while still troublesome beyond the _Missouri_, are rapidly being brought to see the advisability of remaining on the _reservations_, and little more annoyance on their _part_ may be _apprehended_. Fort Brannon, he declares, is in the hands of several hundred brave _fighting_ men and may be looked upon as a place of certain _refuge_ in case of an _outbreak_. The soldiers are proving to be such a menace to those Indians who will not agree to reservation _life_, that whole bands of the more savage redskins are leaving for the _Bad Lands_ and the _rougher_ country farther _west_. No Indian war-parties have been seen east of the big river for _some time_. Already there is an increasing _interest_ in _land_ along the _survey_. And it is believed that when the last _ties_ of the _new line are laid_ there will be _few unclaimed quarter-sections_ between the _Big Sioux_ and the _Missouri_.'

"There!" Braden wound up. "And gradin' begun already at the Mississippi."

"The h--l you say!"

"Believe me now, won't you? Didn't they have a bank_quit_ with champagney? All the State big-bugs, head _sur_veyor, and so on?"

"Too bad!"

"That's what I say. And I'll say more. Of course, we was to go pardners on this thing. So far, so good. But here you ain't did your half. And you can't kick if I deal from now on with old man Lancaster."

Matthews understood. "By----, I done my best," he cried. "Y' can't come any of that on _me_, Braden."

"Keep on your shirt, Nick, keep on your shirt. I looked into this thing at Bismarck, and, under the law, you ain't got one right. Lancaster owns that Bend. And if I pay him out of my own money, why ain't it square?"

The interpreter hung his head.

"Of course," Braden went on, "I'd rather divvy. I can see he's one of them greedy old ducks that's hard to talk money with. Maybe you can think up how to get the land back."

Matthews leaned close. "I had a scheme,"--he nodded south in the direction of Medicine Mountain--"but the reds can't come. I had t' go slow. There's women in th' fambly. Nat'lly, all the men up and down the Muddy want t' see Lancaster stay. There's been a dude fr'm Bismarck here, off and on--tony cuss, sleeps between sheets, nice about his paws as a cat. He's been ready t' tattle or roll a gun."