graft with. Then, when you're left with nothing to
round-up but a bunch of gophers, the government will come along and
have you seen to."

The Irishman's face grew scarlet, and he began to splutter, but Jim
Thorpe went on mercilessly.

"Cut it out, boss. We're cattlemen, both of us. You've grown up to
cattle, and I--well, I've acquired the habit, I guess. But cut it out,
and put your change into automobiles. They aren't things to breed
with, I guess. But I'd say they'd raise a dust there's more dollars in
than there's beans in our supper hash."

The rancher's swift anger had gone. He shook his head, and his hard,
blue eyes stared out through the doorway at the busy life beyond. He
could see the lines of buildings packed close together, as though
huddling up for companionship in that wide, lonesome world of grass.
He could see the acres and acres of corrals, outlying, a rampart to
the ranch buildings. Then, beyond that, the barbed wire fencing, miles
and miles of it. He could see horsemen moving about, engaged upon
their day's work. He could hear the lowing of the cattle in the
corrals. As Thorpe had said, he had grown up to cattle. Cattle and
horses were his life.

He was rich now. This was all his. He was growing richer every year,
and--Thorpe was prophesying the slump, the end. He couldn't believe
it, or rather he wouldn't believe it. And he turned with a fierce
expression of blind loyalty to his calling.

"To h---- with automobiles! It's cattle for me. Cattle or bust!"

Thorpe shook his head.

"There's no alternative, boss. I can see it all coming. Everybody can--if
they look. There's nothing between grain farming and--automobiles. The
land here is too rich to waste on cattle. There's plenty other land
elsewhere that'll feed stock, but wouldn't raise a carrot. Psha! There
won't be need for horses to plough, or even haul grain; and you've got
15,000 head. It'll be all automobiles!"

"I'd 'scrap' the lot!" added the Irishman, briefly and feelingly. Then
he glanced at his companion out of the tail of his eye. "I s'pose it's
your education, boy. That's what's wrong with you. Your head's running
wheels. You come into cattle too late. You've got city doings down
your backbone, and I guess you need weeding bad. Say, you're a West
Point man, ain't you?"

Thorpe seemed to shrink at the question. He turned aside, and his eyes
rested for a moment on the portrait nailed upon his wall. It was only
for a moment his da