"Now you are to come over here Saturday morning. Bring Landy with you, as we can all three ride to Adot in my roadster. There, we will lay the top back, and with you between us, sitting up on the back cushion, we'll parade the town. The door opens at seven o'clock. Performance begins at seven-thirty. Then we come back here for the night and you can ride home Sunday morning. You can talk for an hour if you want to, but you should speak for thirty minutes at least."
* * *
10ToC
"Are you going to live here always?" asked Davy as he slid down off the dictionary and chair at the end of the conference. "What I mean is this, Adine," he added, noting the girl's questioning look. "Are you going to spend your life out here in the sticks, with cattle, horses, and a few yokels that you have to ride miles and miles, before you see two of 'em together?"
"Why, this is my home, I belong here, the same as other young people live with their folks," replied the girl, somewhat startled by the abruptness of the question. "I haven't planned to shift pastures, as grandaddy would say. Why are you asking such an abrupt, personal question?"
"Well, it is sorta personal and rather abrupt," agreed the midget in an appeasing tone. "I should have made the approach with more finesse. Abruptness is one of my defects. But now that I've blundered in, I'd just as well finish. You don't belong out here in the wide open spaces, in these sparse settlements. You belong in the congested areas, where big things are being done, where there's planning, execution, accomplishment. Why, you've taken over both ends of a little hoss trade, laid out all the plans, details and ground work for a community entertainment, and did it with the ease of a big executive lighting a cigarette. You need a big job, in a big place. With your personality and head-work, you can climb up the ladder to the top rung."
"Well, of all things!" said the girl, embarrassed at the unexpected drift, but laughing at the implications. "And this from a guy that has fled the mob and wants me to take his place. Now just what big job have you laid out for me? Running a circus? Managing a theater? Or maybe operating a railroad?"
"You could make a success with any or all of 'em," retorted Davy. "But none of these were in my mind. Some women want a career. Some gain it by their own efforts and some climb to success on a ladder supported by others. Then there is the big majority—many of 'em brilliant and capable—that just settle down in the doldrums of marriage and let their talents rust out in negligence and inattention."
"Then I'm not to marry?"
"You ought to. A gal as attractive, vivacious, and clever as you are, would have to marry—in self-defense, if for no other reason. Marriage need not interfere. It might help. With that hazard and gamble out of the way, it would allow you to expand your talents in planning, executing, and managing in any line you choose."
"And about when do you plan that this defense marriage—this shotgun wedding—is to take place?" questioned Adine scornfully. "And who's the victim?"
"Now that's a candle-flame that I'll keep my fingers out of," said Davy hastily. "Judge Vane told me once a person who advises or mixes in on the marriage relations of others is liable in damages. And anyhow, sane people don't run matrimonial agencies. In that debacle, you're on your own. I'm promoting talent, not running a marriage bureau. And I don't want the side show to dim the performance in the big top. You've got talent, personality, ability to influence others, and whether you are solo in the orchestra or doubling in brass in the matrimonial band makes no difference. You ought to be directing the mob instead of listening to a lone midget."
Adine Lough laughed, not at the text, but the homely comparisons of the little man that, standing hat in hand, was earnestly and seriously throwing bouquets of compliments and darts of poignant facts right in her face. And both the flowers and darts were coming from an unexpected source. With the delicate matrimonial problem swept completely aside, she felt that this new-found friend, in his nation-wide travels and a million contacts, was really sincere in some of his estimates and was trying to be helpful in his blunt, abrupt appraisals. Anyhow, she was reconciled to that view.
"Well, I never had so many compliments in all my life! I didn't know that you were a student of sociology—could estimate capabilities and get everyone in their right groove. I should have been conferring with you, for I have an unsolved problem, bigger than any you've mentioned." Adine had ceased her scorning tones; now she was asking for an answer. She motioned Davy to a footstool.
"Why, I didn't know that you had a care in the world. As Polo Garrett used to say, 'What's eatin' ya?'"
"My problem is my family. I'm the only one left that is able to do things. There is little I can do to aid the ones that are sick and I am making no progress in keeping these two big, clumsy ranches out of bankruptcy.
"Father, as you know, is in the hospital in Omaha and mother was called there three weeks ago. The trivial ulcers have developed into something worse. Daddy went to Omaha to be near the market that was tumbling, crashing, and bringing on bankruptcy to stock raisers. He hoped to find a solution, hoped to learn that the end of the disaster was in sight. He had been cutting production for four years; surely a period of scarcity was at hand, he wanted to be ready.
"Meanwhile he consulted a specialist on a matter of stomach ulcers, only to encounter a more serious condition. A dozen years ago, in one season, he had sold eighty thousand dollars worth of livestock from these two ranches. Just now, he has sold breeding stock until there's little left. Now these recent sales were made not to get money, but to reduce the supply, to meet conditions. Money needs were not serious until both banks failed two years ago, and then it became a calamity. And now, my young counselor, adviser, flatterer, and friend, do you think I should seek a job in the congested areas?"
"Well, it does appear that you are involved in a lot of responsibility, and surely have a big problem on your hands. You speak of two ranches. Where's the other one?"
"Really, it's all one," the girl explained, "but Grandaddy keeps up the pretense of operating one of his own—wants to compete with Father in management—in livestock, in methods. It's the Old Pioneer versus the Progressive. Longhorn versus thoroughbred, and Daddy indulges and encourages him in the plan.
"You see, Grandfather had settled on Grant's Fork (that's about four miles west); he had built a cabin and stables, long before the surveyors came. 'They surveyed me in,' was his frequent statement. And there he lived and carried on until Father grew up, married, and built this home. Grandfather registered his cattle brand as the Bowline. It is a bent bow with a taut string. Father carried the same brand, but folks began calling it the B-line and both ranches go by that name. And it's really one to the outsider. The difference in methods and in management is best illustrated by the fact that in the fall, Grandfather takes a week to drive his finished product to the pens at the railroad siding, while Father trucks a full carload over there in the early morning.
"But in all these years there never was any distinction in ownership of property or chattels. If Grandfather wanted a stack of hay or a roll of fencing he came and got it. He would call on Daddy's men for help as freely as he would call his own. They paid each other's bills without any accounting and there was never any friction, until now. Now, the problem of all these past years is dumped right in my lap. I don't know how to handle it. I am desperate for advice, so desperate that I now seek the counsel of the Oracle of the Footlights, the Mystic of the Sawdust Ring. Wilt thou help me, Sire?" concluded Adine, as she bowed in mock distress to the little man squirming on the footstool.
"Well, I don't see that you need help. You've done all that is needful and possible. You can't heal the sick, stop a financial depression, or retard old age, but you've left nothing undone. Your problem is already solved."
"We haven't reached the insoluble part," said Adine gravely. "I've just given you the details leading up to it. I have shown that there were two ranches, two plans of management, an intermingling of assets, and never the least bit of friction. Yet there is one thing in
which they are as far apart as the two poles: Father always banks his money, and Grandaddy never did. It doesn't seem possible for a person to live as long as Grandfather has and not use a bank. Back in the early days, he wore a money belt with gold in it. In later years he had what he calls a keyster, a metal box with lock and key where he keeps paper money. He is not a miser; he pays bills promptly and gives generously. The keyster was never hidden. It might be left on the table or mantel or, because of its weight, it might be used as a door prop. So far as I know, no one ever cheated him, and surely no one had the nerve to try to take it by force.
"Grandmother died before I was born. After her death, and while Father was setting up business over here, the Craigs moved in with Grandaddy. They were young people, brother and sister, Joe and Myrah, and they have been there ever since. Now just who the Craigs are I do not know. There is an old rumor among the cow hands that Grandaddy was paying off some sort of an old romantic debt when he took them in. It must have been a far-flung romance, for the Craigs reputedly came from up in the Wind River district.
"At any rate there they are. Myrah is a good housekeeper and has been a good caretaker of an aged man. Joe was never a cow man. He has a crippled hand. In his young days he roamed the country as a hunter and trapper. He cuts the wood, builds the fires, and runs the errands; just a lackey boy, and is still just that.
"When Father came to Omaha this last time, Grandaddy came over here occasionally. He would bring the keyster and pay the bills. Finally, as Father's stay was prolonged, I persuaded Grandfather to headquarter over here. I fixed up the front room for his convenience. He seems contented with the fireplace and Morris chair. I could have gotten along all right but the matter of finances bothered me. With the banks closed, we have little money available. Even if we had a considerable sum, I wouldn't know where to keep it. A cupboard or desk seemed an insecure place and my financial experience has been limited to a little money purse with small change and probably only one bill. Just now, Grandfather's keyster is the Rock of Gibraltar, the financial prop that is sustaining the whole structure. But what about this prop? How strong is it? Will it outlast the depression? I don't know. I doubt if Father would know, if he were here. He and Grandaddy might exchange quips or gibes over the matter of sales or production but they didn't broadcast as to funds on hand.
"Truly, I don't care to know how much money is in Grandaddy's keyster, that's his affair. But it's irksome and tragic not to know one's limitations. Tomorrow the whole structure may crumble and fall, for lack of another dollar.
"My relations with Grandaddy are peculiar. He was sorely disappointed that I wasn't a boy. He tolerates me and that's about all. To him, women are a liability, not an asset. He regards them as a necessary evil. If anything important is to be done, it must be done by a man. If he is irritated by some woman's accomplishments he growls out: 'Men fought for and won the territory and women followed in to take possession.' And for this reason it was an easy matter to induce him to come over here with his keyster and take charge. He just couldn't conceive that a girl could manage a business.
"But notwithstanding his disappointments and my timidity, we've gotten along very well. When I go away to school he always slips me a bill or two for spending money. I could feel that he resented my buying a car, yet he pays for my gasoline without complaint. His bias, prejudice, and vindictiveness doesn't apply to the members of his immediate family, but it does apply intensely and vigorously to others. It's this peculiarity that might wreck the works at this critical time.
"It's a family tradition that Grandaddy never went in debt for anything. If he hadn't the cash to pay, he didn't buy. But just now, they are closing out the Bar-O ranch lands, cattle, chattels, and it's ill repute. If Grandaddy knew of this sale, he would spend every dime in that keyster of his, and go in debt as far as he could, in order to own this thing that has been a life's obsession. And if he were to spend this money, be it much or little, this B-line would be bankrupt. I have tried to keep the news of this sale away from Grandaddy just to avoid this catastrophe. If it comes, I am helpless."
During this recital, Adine was seated facing Davy on the footstool. There were lines in her face that Davy had never seen, a near quaver in her voice that he had never heard. The Sir Galahad of the Sawdust Ring had surely found a maiden in dire distress. He wriggled on his seat, mustering comforting words.
"Well, I don't want to offend by poo-pooing your troubles," said Davy as consolingly as he could. "Sickness is always bad, but everything is being done that's possible; your grandfather's acts couldn't work much harm. You don't owe anything to anybody; your needs are few; your expenses are at a minimum. There will be a moratorium on taxes and your few employees would readily accept a note in lieu of cash, and friends like Mrs. Gillis would gladly come to the rescue if quick funds are needed. Frankly, you are a long way from Trouble River and you should not worry about crossing it until you reach the brink.
"And that's that," said the little man, brushing his hands as if the matter were fully settled. "Now tell me about this Bar-O thing. Is this the same affair that Mister Potter spoke of? What's the grazing master got to do, in folding up a ranch? Why would your grandfather get all het up if he heard about it? Where is this Bar-O property? Maybe in this tragic drama, there is a comedy part that I could play."
"There's no comedy in this local drama," said Adine, resuming her challenging attitude. "And you brush the tragedies into the wastebasket like mere dross. A while ago, you were assigning me to big jobs in the congested areas while you were to idle around in the wide open spaces. Just now, I would put you back in some city as a public relations officer, a Mister Fixit, to diagnose and cure personal and community ills. You would fix 'em or discard 'em instantly.
"But, badinage aside, I know very little of the Bar-O entanglements and complications. It's an old story. Grandaddy knows all about it but he doesn't talk. There are few facts and many rumors. For three generations it's been a sort of a gnaw-bone, to be dug up and chewed on when there's nothing else. It's a musty old tradition, a sort of a remnant of the old days, that present day newsmongers use as a yardstick for comparisons. If a modern domestic complication breaks out, the current gossip outmatches it by the entanglements in the Barrow family. If it's murder, robbery, or arson, some of the Barrows did worse and got away with it.
"Just now, some current chapters are being written. Mister Logan, the receiver of the bank of Adot, has foreclosed a mortgage on the real estate and seeks possession. Mister Finch, the grazing master, always lenient and forebearing, is seeking to recover past due payments. This may be the final chapter. Grim facts are taking the place of hearsay."
"Well, just where is this land of romantic tragedy and domestic infelicity?" questioned Davy. "How come that the movie people haven't taken it over to fit their verbiage: thrilling, stupendous, smashing, wondrous, and so forth?"
"Well, if the movie people have as much trouble getting on the property as the sheriff and Mister Finch are having, they wouldn't get a very clear picture and the story would be limited to their own misfortunes. Up to now, old Hulls Barrow has stood 'em off with a gun. They don't want to kill him and they can't get possession.
"Now this Bar-O ranch is just over the hogback, south of us. There is no road, just a trail over the ridge. The Barrows use the other road. I don't know how big it is. The surveys in these hills stay in the valleys; the lines run from point to promontory. The units are miles, not rods. Tranquil Meadows, a fine area of grassland, is just south of the Bar-O. Had the Silver Falls project been a success, the government would have done the same with the Meadows tract. A road blasted through the hills would have connected the two tracts.
"Old Matt Barrow was one of the early settlers. Grandfather's feud with him had early beginnings. I don't think it was personal, for they rarely met. Grandaddy was outstanding as a law enforcer and here was a petty offender right under his nose. Barrow had no cattle brand until they made him use one. He was uneducated, could
n't spell his own name, and his name, in the records, is spelled in several ways. He had no fences and would employ any misfit or doubtful that came along. He seemed to prey on one side of the ridge and sell on the other. But in all the years he escaped conviction of even a minor offense. In an early day, a lone prospector was missing. Everybody had ideas, but no evidence. Dan Hale's stacks were burned. No evidence. And so it ran through the years.
"Barrow raised two boys. This Hulls, who is standing off the law with a gun, and Archie, who disappeared in about a year after Maizie came. The boys surely must have had a mother, but there is no record or rumor of a death or burial. The same is true of old Clemmy Pruitt, who went there to live. Old Matt Barrow must have maintained a private cemetery and conducted the funerals.
"The boys, Hulls and Archie, grew up to be old bachelors. They carried on in about the same fashion as the old man. Maybe they visited the settlements and got drunk oftener than he did, but the Bar-O continued as a mystery and a sore spot in a neighborhood that was struggling up from primitive ways." Adine paused to chuckle a bit at the midget's interest in the recital. The little man's eyes were glued on the speaker, he missed never a word.
"You are marveling how I know so much about a thing that is based on hearsay and rumors," continued the narrator as she pointed to a manuscript on the table. "There are my notes for my thesis, 'Social Work in Rural Communities.' It's full of notes and comments on the rumors and hearsay about the Barrow family. In every community the exception to the rule is played up as the feature story. In Pittsburgh it's steel; in Boston, the Back Bay district gets the headlines; in Charleston, it's the Colonial homes that are featured. The mine-run folks get no mention. Here in Henry County, it's the Barrow family. In my notes, I simply list 'em as rumors, letting the reader be the judge. And now, let's get along to the final chapter.
David Lannarck-Midget Page 10
