More thoughtful than usual, I walked on, passing some of my old haunts,
and was about to turn in front of a feed and grain store when a hearty
slap on my back disturbed my reflection.
"Howdy thar, cowboy," boomed a big voice.
It was Morton, the rancher whom Jim had mentioned, and whose
acquaintance I had made. He was a man of great bulk, with a ruddy,
merry face.
"Hello, Morton. Let's have a drink," I replied.
"Gotta rustle home," he said. "Young feller, I've a ranch to work."
"Sell it to me, Morton."
He laughed and said he wished he could. His buckboard stood at the rail,
the horses stamping impatiently.
"Cards must be runnin' lucky," he went on, with another hearty laugh.
"Can't kick on the luck. But I'm afraid it will change. Morton, my
friend Hoden gave me a hunch you'd be a good man to tie to. Now, I've
a little money, and before I lose it I'd like to invest it in stock."
He smiled broadly, but for all his doubt of me he took definite
interest.
"I'm not drunk, and I'm on the square," I said bluntly. "You've taken me
for a no-good cow puncher without any brains. Wake up, Morton. If you
never size up your neighbors any better than you have me--well, you
won't get any richer.
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