The Second Western Megapack. Zane Grey
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ways are not ours.”
“Not a mystery,” he corrected, “just a heap of tricks; funny ones, sad ones, sensible ones, and crazy ones—and of all the crazy ones this is the worst. But, what’s the use? If there’s a God, as you believe, it doesn’t do any good to argue with Him, and if it’s as I think and there’s no God, there’s no one to argue with. But never mind about that now—it’s no matter. You’ll listen carefully, won’t you, Rose?”
“Yes, Martin.”
“This abortion in the herd. You know what a terrible thing it is.”
“I certainly do; it’s the cause of your leaving me.”
“Rose, I know you’ll be busy during the next few days—me dying, the things that have to be arranged, the funeral and all that. But when it’s all over, you’ll let that be the first thing, won’t you?”
“Yes, the very first thing, if you wish it.”
“I do. Get Dr. Hurton on the job at once, and have him fight it. He knows his business. Let him come twice a day until he’s sure it’s out of the herd. Keep that new bull out of the pasture. And if Hurton can’t clean it up, you’d better get rid of the herd before it gets known around the country. You know how news of that kind travels. Don’t try to handle the sale yourself. If you do, it’ll be a mistake. The prices will be low if you get only a county crowd.”
“Neighbors usually bid low,” she agreed.
“Run up to Topeka and see Baker—he’s the sales manager of the Holstein Breeders’ Association. Let him take charge of it all—he’s a straight fellow. He’ll charge you enough—fifteen per cent of the gross receipts, but then he’ll see to it that the people who want good stuff will be there. He knows how and where to advertise. He’s got a big list of names, and can send out letters to the people that count. He’ll bring buyers from Iowa down to Texas. Remember his name—Baker.”
“Yes, Martin—Baker.”
“I think you ought to sell the herd anyway,” he went on. “I know you, Rose; you’ll be careless about the papers—no woman ever realizes how important it is to have the facts for the certificates of registry and transfer just right. I’m afraid you’ll fall down there and get the records mixed. You won’t get the dates exact and the name and number of each dam and sire. Women are all alike there—they never seem to realize that a purebred without papers is just a good grade.” Rose made no comment, while Martin changed his position slowly and lost himself in thought.
“Yes, I guess it’s the only thing to do—to get rid of the purebred stuff. God Almighty! It’s taken me long enough to build up that herd, but a few weeks from now they’ll be scattered to the four winds. Well, it can’t be helped. Try to sell them to men who understand something of their value. And that reminds me, Rose. You always speak of them as thoroughbreds. It always did get on my nerves. That’s right for horses, but try to remember that cows are purebreds. You’ll make that mistake before men who know. Those little things are important. Remember it, won’t you?”
“Thoroughbred for a horse, and purebred for a cow,” Rose repeated willingly.
“When you get your money for the stock put it into mortgages—first mortgages, not seconds. Let that be a principle with you. Many a holder of a second mortgage has been left to hold the sack. You must remember that the first mortgage comes in for the first claim after taxes, and if the foreclosure doesn’t bring enough to satisfy more than that, the second mortgage is sleeping on its rights.”
“First mortgages, not seconds,” said Rose.
“And while I’m on that, let me warn you about Alex Tracy, four miles north and a half mile east, on the west side of the road. He’s a slippery cuss and you’ll have to watch him.”
“Alex Tracy, four miles north—”
“You’ll find my mortgage for thirty-seven hundred in my box at the bank. He’s two coupons behind in his interest. I made him give me a chattel on his growing corn. Watch him—he’s treacherous. He may think he can sneak around because you’re a woman and stall you. He’s just likely to turn his hogs into that corn. Your chattel is for growing corn, not for corn in a hog’s belly. If he tries any dirty business get the sheriff after him.”
“It’s on the growing corn,” said Rose.
“And here’s another important point—taxes. Don’t pay any taxes on mortgages. What’s the use of giving the politicians more money to waste? Hold on to your bank stock and arrange to have all mortgages in the name of the bank, not in your own. They pay taxes on their capital and surplus, not on their loans. But be sure to get a written acknowledgment on each mortgage from Osborne. He’s square, but you can’t ever tell what changes might take place and then there might be some question about mortgages in the bank’s name.”
“Keep them in the bank’s name,” said Rose.
“And a written acknowledgment,” Martin stressed. “A written acknowledgment,” she echoed.
For probably fifteen minutes he lay without further talk; then, a little more weariness in his voice than she had ever known before, he began to speak again.
“I’ve been thinking a great deal, Rose.” There was still that new tenderness in the manner in which he pronounced her name, that new tone she had never heard before and which caused her to feel a little nervous. “I’ve been thinking, Rose, about the years we’ve lived together here on a Kansas prairie farm—”
“It lacks just a few months of being twenty-eight years,” she added.
“Yes, it sounds like a long time when you put it that way, but it doesn’t seem any longer than a short sigh to me lying here. I’ve been thinking, Rose, how you’ve always got it over to me that you loved me or could love me—”
“I’ve always loved you, Martin—deeply.”
“Yes, that’s what’s always made me so hard with you. It would have been far better for you if you hadn’t cared for me at all. I’ve never loved anybody, not even my own mother, nor Bill, nor myself for that matter.” Their eyes shifted away from each other quickly as both thought of one other whom he did not mention. “I wasn’t made that way, Rose. Now you could love anything—lots of women are like that, and men, too. But I wasn’t. Life to me has always been a strange world that I never got over thinking about and trying to understand, and at the same time hustling to get through with every day of it as fast as I could by keeping at the only thing I knew which would make it all more bearable. There’s a lot of pain in work, but it’s only of the muscles and my pain has always been in the things I’ve thought about. The awful waste and futility of it all! Take this farm—I came here when this was hardly more than a desert. You ought to have seen how thick the dust was the first day we got down here. And I’ve built up this place. You’ve helped me. Bill didn’t care for it—even if he had lived, he’d never have stayed here. But you do, in spite of all that’s happened.”
“Yes, Martin, I do,” she returned fervently. “It’s a wonderful monument to leave behind you—this farm is.”
His eyes grew somber. “That’s what I’ve always thought it would be,” he answered, very low. “I’ve felt as if I was building something that would last. Even the barns—they’re ready to stand for generations. But this minute, when the end is sitting at the foot of this bed, I seem to see it all crumbling before me. You won’t stay here. Why should you—even if you do for a few years you’ll have to leave it sometime, and there’s nothing that goes to rack and ruin as quickly as a farm—even one like this.”
“Oh, Martin, don’t think such thoughts,” she begged. “Your fever is coming up; I can see it.”
“What has it all been about, that’s what I want to know,” he went on with quiet cynicism. “What have I been sweating about—nothing. What is anyone’s life? No more than mine. We’re all like a lot