HE next morning, Hugh began an inventory of the stock of The Lariat. Fred Allward came in as he was listing a set of the Elsie books.
“What are you doing, Hughie?” he demanded.
“Who? Me? Why I’m out prospecting the Old Sioux Tract,” grunted Hugh, replacing Elsie's Holidays with a vicious shove of his long, muscular hand.
“So I see! Judge was telling me about your having to do assessment work for two years. Think the claims are worth it?”
He leaned against the counter, watching Hugh set down “1 Copy Elsie's Holidays,” in a small, copperplate hand. Fred never ceased to find delight in the meticulous accuracy and care which marked all that Hugh did.
Hugh looked up from the account book. “Do you think the claims are worth it, Fred?”
The older man pulled at the ubiquitous piece of plug. “Well,” he said, carefully, “I opine that the Old Sioux Tract is going to be rich prospecting in your line for a good many years. The dude ranch is one of the best in this section whether it’s worked for dudes or four-legged critters. But this here book store ain’t worth taxes. I can’t see just what you’d want with it.”
Hugh began to fill his pipe slowly. Fred watched him keenly.
After a time he sighed. “Well, Hughie, what do you expect me to do while you take two years’ rest? Read this what-do-you-call-it, Elsie's Holidays?”
Hugh smiled. “You go up and prospect the Old Sioux Tract. But don’t come in here with reports of your findings. It will just upset me. Keep a good record. Two years will pass eventually and I’ll make up for lost time then.”
“How about shipping out old Red Wolf’s Stone Devil?” asked Fred.
“Can’t be done, under the terms of the will, Judge Proctor says.”
“My God, Hughie, you are a fool!” exclaimed Fred.
Hugh shrugged his shoulders and there was another silence broken when Fred said, “Hughie, you won’t last a month at this,” peering over his employer’s shoulder as he set down concisely in the blankbook—
Fred gave a violent snort and clanked out of the store.
Pink was the next visitor. He appeared an hour later when Hugh was varying the monotony of the book inventory by listing curios—
“I wonder how that Chemhuivi blanket got up here, Pink,” observed Hugh.
“Mark Olson hocked that with Bookie last summer.” Pink spat thoughtfully and accurately into the middle of the street. “You remember his wife was a half-breed Navajo. He hocked that for money to bury her with. It was when you was up in the Jackson Hole country.”
Hugh nodded and wrote on.
“Found that water bottle up in the same cave where you found the petrified turtle, didn’t you?” asked Pink.
“Yes. Not that one had anything to do with the other,” answered Hugh.
“I don’t see why not. There must of been a point somewhere in them old days when the humans and the critters began to overlap.” Pink’s voice was argumentative. He rose from the doorstep and came over to examine the dusty black water carrier.
“Well, I’ll tell you what I think.” Hugh lighted his pipe, the irked look leaving his eyes. The two men sank into chairs and put their feet on the top of the stove. “It was probably like this—” began Hugh.
“Wait a minute,” grunted Pink. “Hell’s a-popping again.”
Mrs. Morgan darted in at the door. “Pink, you promised me you’d be ready to drive me round town promptly at ten.”
“No, I didn’t. I told you I’d have the car ready at ten. You drive yourself.”
“Pink Morgan, you’ve got to drive me. I’m going to every house in this town and find out exactly what they’re doing with their garbage and their corrals. I tell you this fly nuisance is going to stop in Fort Sioux.”
“I’m not going. Anyhow, Hughie and I are having a business conference. And anyhow, why the car? You can hoof it to every house in Fort Sioux in an hour.”
“I want the car. I’m going with some dignity.”
Pink glared at his wife helplessly. She was so small, so persistent, so full of schemes and plans. It was the schemes and plans that always routed and finally dominated Pink. He was born to a planless scheme of life. He was a congenital herdsman; a rider of the plains, where time and urgency do not exist.
“I’m waiting, Pink,” said Mrs. Morgan.
Pink muttered something under his breath, rose slowly, and without looking at Hugh, followed his wife out of The Lariat. A moment later a brisk fusillade rattled the windows and Hugh chuckled as he watched the little car plow through the sand, Pink in shirt sleeves at the wheel, Mrs. Morgan, sitting in the middle of the rear seat, her small back as straight and rigid as her tightly compressed lips.