Womanlike, Patricia began in a somewhat roundabout fashion and in a
tone not far from cajolery.
“Gary! You do know all about ranch life and raising cattle and hay
and horses and so on, don’t you?”
Gary was lighting a cigarette. If he had learned the “picture value”
of holding a pose, he was at least unconscious of his deliberation
in waving out the match flame before he replied. His was a profile
very effective in close-ups against the firelight. Holding a pose
comes to be second nature to an actor who has to do those things for
a living.
“Dad would rather feature the so-on stuff. Subtitle, father saying,
‘You ain’t much on raisin’ cattle but you’re shore an expert at
raisin’ hell!’ Cut back to son on horse at gate, gazing wistfully
toward house. Sighs. Turns away. Iris out, son riding away into
dusk. Why?”
“Fathers are like that. Of course you know all about those things.
You were raised on a ranch. Have you landed that contract with Mills
yet, to play Western leads?”
“Not yet--Mills is waiting for his chief to come on from New York.
He’s due here about the First. I was talking with Mills to-day, and
he says he’s morally certain they’ll give me a company of my own and
put on Western Features. You know what that would mean, Pat--a year’s
contract for me. And we could get married----”
“Yes, never mind that, since you haven’t landed it.” Patricia drew
in her breath. “Well, you know what I think of the movie game; we’ve
thrashed that all out, times enough. I simply can’t see _my_ husband
making movie love to various and sundry females who sob and smile
and smirk at him for so many dollars per. We’ll skip that. Also my
conviction that the movies are lowering--cheapening to any full-sized
man. Smirking and frowning before a camera, and making mushy love
for kids on the front seats to stamp and whistle at--well, never
mind; we won’t go into that at this time.
“You know, Gary. I just love you to be Western; but I want you to be
_real_ Western--my own range hero. Not cheap, movie make-believe. I
want you to get out and live the West. I can close my eyes and see
you on a cattle ranch, riding out at dawn after your own
cattle--doing your part in increasing the world’s production of
food--being something big and really worth while!”
“Can you? You’re a good little seer, Pat. Golly, grandma! I wish I’d
saved half of that shortcake to eat after a while. Now I’m so full I
can’t swallow a mouthful of smoke. What’s the surprise, kid? Don’t
hold the suspense till the interest flags--that’s bad business. Makes
the story drag.”
“Why, I’m telling you, Gary!” Patricia opened her eyes at him in a
way that would have brought any movie queen a raise in salary. “It’s
just that you’re going to have a chance to live up to what’s really
in you. You’re going to manage a cattle ranch, dear. Not a real big
one--yet. But you’ll have the fun of seeing it grow.”
“Oh-ah-h--I’ll have the fun--er-r--all right, Pat, _I_ give it up.”
Gary settled back again with his head against the cushion “Tell us
the joke. My brain’s leather to-night; had a heck of a day.”
“The joke? Why, the joke is--well, just that you don’t get it! I knew
you wouldn’t, just at first. Think, Gary! Just close your eyes and
think of miles and miles of open range and no fences, and herds of
cattle roaming free. Picture a home ranch against the mountains, in
a cañon called--let’s play it’s called Johnnywater. Are you doing
it?”
“Uh-huh. I’m thinking----” But he sounded drowsy, as if he would be
asleep presently if he continued holding his eyes shut. “Open range
and cattle roaming free--there ain’t no such animal.”
“That’s where the big surprise comes in, Gary. Listen. This is the
most important thing that ever happened to either of us. I--I can
hardly talk about it, it’s so perfectly _wonderful_. You’d never
guess in a million years. But I--well, read these papers, Gary
boy--I’ll explain them afterwards.”
Gary opened his eyes somewhat reluctantly, smiled endearingly at the
flushed Patricia and accepted two legal-looking documents which she
proffered with what might almost have been termed a flourish. He
glanced at them somewhat indifferently, glanced again, gave Patricia
a startled look, and sat up as if some one had prodded him
unexpectedly in the back. He read both papers through frowningly,
unconsciously registering consternation. When he had finished, he
stared blankly at Patricia for a full minute.
“Pat Connolly, what the heck is this trick deed? I can’t feature it.
I don’t _get_ it! What’s the big idea?”
“That’s just a deed, Gary. The cattle and the brand and the water
right to Johnnywater Spring, and the squatter’s right to the
pasturage and improvements are all included--as you would have seen
if you had read it carefully. The other paper is the water right,
that he got from the State. Besides that, I have the affidavits of
two men who swear that William Waddell legally owned one hundred
head of cattle and the funny X brand, and that everything is all
straight to the best of their knowledge and belief.
“I insisted upon the affidavits being furnished, since I couldn’t
afford to make a trip away up there myself. It’s all right, Gary. I
could send them all to jail for perjury and things of that sort if
they have lied about it.”
Patricia pressed her palms hard upon the table and gave a subdued
little squeal of sheer ecstasy.
“Just think of it, Gary! After almost despairing of ever being able
to have a ranch of our own, so that you could ride around and really
manage things, instead of pretending it in pictures, Fate gave me
this wonderful chance!
“I was working up our mailing list, and ran across an ad in the
Tonopah paper, of this place for sale. The ‘Free grazing and water
rights in open range country’ caught my eye first. And the price was
cheap--scandalously cheap for a stock ranch. I answered the ad right
away--that was over a month ago, Gary. I’ve kept it a secret, because
I hate arguments so, and I knew you’d argue against it. Any,
anyway,” she added naïvely, “you’ve been away on location so I
couldn’t tell you.
“That country is all unsurveyed for miles and miles and _miles_. Mr.
Waddell writes that there are absolutely no grazing restrictions
whatever, and that even their saddle and work horses run loose the
year around. He says the winters are open----”
That last bit of information was delivered somewhat doubtfully.
Patricia had lived in Southern California since she was a tiny tot
and did not know exactly what an “open” winter meant.
“It’s scarcely settled at all, and there are no sheep in the
country. I knew that would be important, so I asked, particularly.
It’s in a part of the country that has been overlooked, Mr. Waddell
says, just because it’s quite a long way from the railroad. I never
dreamed there was any unsurveyed country left in America. Did you,
Gary?”
Gary had slumped down in the big chair and was smoking his cigarette
with thoughtful deliberation. His eyes veiled themselves before
Patricia’s glowing enthusiasm.
“Death Valley is unsurveyed,” he observed grimly.
“I’m not talking about Death Valley,” Patricia retorted impatiently.
“I mean cattle range. I’ve been corresponding with Mr. Waddell for a
month, so I have all the facts.”
“_All_ the facts, kid?” Gary was no fool. He was serious enough now,
and the muscles along his jaw were hardening a little. His director
would have been tickled with that expression for a close-up of
slow-growing anger.
“The only country left unsurveyed to-day is desert that would starve
a horn toad to death in a week. Some one has put one over on you,
Pat. Where does he live? If you’ve paid him any money yet, I’ll have
to go and get it back for you. You’ve bought a gold brick, Pat.”
“I have not! I investigated, I tell you. I have really bought the
Waddell outfit--cattle, horses, brand, ranch, water rights and
everything. It took all the insurance money dad left me, except just
a few hundred dollars. That Power of Attorney--I pinned it on the
back of the deed to surprise you, and you haven’t looked at it
yet--cost me ten dollars, Gary Marshall! It gives you the right to go
over there and run the outfit and transact business just as if you
were the owner. I--I thought you might need it, and it would be just
as well to have it.”
Gary leaned forward, his jaw squared, his right hand shut to a
fighting fist on the table.
“Do you think for a minute I’m crazy enough to go over _there_? To
quit a good job that’s just opening up into something big, and go
off in the sand somewhere to watch cattle starve to death? It just
happens that I do know a little about the cow business. Cattle have
to eat, my dear girl. They don’t just walk around in front of a
camera to give dolled-up cowboys a chance to ride. They require food
occasionally.
“Why, Pat, take a look at that deed! That in itself ought to have
been enough to warn you. It’s recorded in Tonopah. _Tonopah!_ I was
there on location once when we made _The Gold Boom_. It’s a mining
town--not a cow town, Pat.”
Patricia smiled patiently.
“I know it, Gary. I didn’t say that Johnnywater lies inside the city
limits of Tonopah. Mines and cattle are not like sheep and cattle;
they don’t clash. There are cattle all around in that country.”
Patricia swept out an arm to indicate vast areas. “We have inquiries
from cattle men all over Nevada about stock food. I’ve billed out
alfalfa molasses and oil cakes to several Nevada towns. And
remember, I was making up a mailing list for our literature when I
ran across the ad. We don’t mail our price lists to milliners,
either. They raise cattle all through that country.”
“Well, _I_ don’t raise ’em there--that’s flat.” Gary settled back in
his chair with absolute finality in tone, words and manner.
“Then I’m a ruined woman.” But Patricia said it calmly, even with a
little secret satisfaction. “I shall have to go myself, then, and
run the ranch, and get killed by bronks and bitten to death by Gila
monsters and carried off by the Indians----”
“Piffle!” from the big chair. “You couldn’t get on a bronk that was
dangerous, and Gila monsters live farther south, and the Injuns are
too lazy to carry anybody off. Besides, I wouldn’t let you go.”
“Then I’m still a ruined woman, except that I’m ruined quicker. My
cows will die and my calves will be rustled and my horses ridden
off--_my_ cows and _my_ calves and _my_ horses!”
“Sell!” shouted Gary, forgetting other Bungalow Courters in his
sudden fury. “You’re stung, I tell you. Sell the damned thing!”
Patricia looked at him. She had a pretty little round chin, but
there were times when it squared itself surprisingly. And whenever
it did square itself, you could souse Patricia and hold her head
under water until air bubbles ceased to rise; and if you brought her
up and got her gasping again, Patricia would gasp, “Scissors!” like
the old woman in the story.
“No. I shall not sell. I shall not do anything more than I have done
already. If you refuse to go to Nevada and take charge of
Johnnywater, I shall go myself or I shall let my cattle starve.”
She would, too. Gary knew that. He looked steadily at her until he
was sure of the square chin and all, and then he threw out both
hands as if in complete surrender.
“Oh, very well,” he said tolerantly. “We won’t quarrel about it,
Pat.”