David Lannarck, Midget | Page 9

Omaha. We are to be in North Bend,
tomorrow; Grand Island, Friday; Omaha, Saturday; and then the payoff.
I will have some things to do in Omaha. I want to telephone home and
ask about some friends; I will talk to my financial boss and learn if he
is still weathering the financial storm and then I am ready for the big
jump out to your place. Can you meet me here with this truck-trailer
outfit, say about Wednesday? I will have about three hundred pounds
of baggage, and we must stock up with grub against getting snowed in.
Can you meet me here Wednesday? Or, if you are too busy, can you
send someone?"

"Why sure I'll meet you--Wednesday or any other day--here or any
other place you say." The man of the mountains was absorbing some of
the little man's enthusiasm. "Sure I'll meet you, but you work so fast
and drive right through that I can hardly keep up. Why, we hardly drive
through with one thing until you have another. If I seem indifferent and
not very responsive, it's because I haven't caught up yet. Think of it!
Ten hours ago I was coming out of the hills with a serious problem that
was hindering my work. Now, I am rid of the problem, have ninety
dollars in cash; have the offer of all the funds I need, and prospects of a
fine companion all through the dreaded winter. The change from
poverty to riches has been so rapid that it's more like a dream than a
reality. And here's the worst feature of the whole business," continued
Welborn as the two made their way to the ticket wagon. "Here's the fly
in the ointment. My side of the equation has been nothing but plus, plus.
I am fearful that yours will be more than minus. You are tired of the
mob; you want to get away from the crowds. You have a mental picture
of the ranching business; horses, cattle, cowboys, knee-deep grass
billowing through the great open spaces. It's your dream to land right in
the midst of such surroundings, and your disappointments will be
terrible to endure. I have no such ranch and there's none nearer than ten
miles of my place. Most of the cattle nowadays are purebred; the
cowboys are cow hands, feeders, and care-takers--without a
mount--and many of them never saw a pair of chaps and few wear ten
gallon hats like the picture books show. That stuff belongs to the
rodeos and dude ranches. Why the Diamond A Ranch over on Mad
Trapper Fork is a model for any manufacturing plant. It has
bookkeepers, salesmen, feeders from 'aggy' schools. You won't like that;
it's not up to the standards of your dream. Of course you will like old
Jim Lough of the B-line Ranch. He's ninety and used to be a tough
hombre of the old school. But now he's out of the picture, his son Larry
runs the ranch, and he is soon to give way to a young college girl who
is up on foreign markets and the like.
"My fears are that what you see and experience will not be the picture
of beauty and action that you had dreamed about. My poor little place,
without livestock or feed--or action--will be a terrible disappointment."

"Well we will make a ranch out of it. The building of a ranch will be
more pleasure than the possession of the finished product," rejoined
Davy stoutly. "We will raise some feed, buy a few sheep and from
there on, watch us grow! But early in this venture, I must get me a
pony--a pinto, preferably--small enough for me to ride and big enough
to go places. Then I'm all set. Hi, Lew!" The midget had climbed up on
the wheel of the ticket wagon and was tapping on the window. "Cash
my check for three hundred dollars and meet my podner, Mister
Welborn."
"Your partner in what?" queried the accommodating Lew, as he slid
back the window and began to count out the cash. "What's your racket
now, Prince? Have you hooked up with Ben-a-Mundi in that Crystal
Readings graft, or is it a short-change racket?" Lew aided Davy up to
the shelf where he could sign the check. "Better look out, Mister
Welborn, your partner here is a slicker--a regular city grafter. He skins
his friends just to keep in practice. Paying you this little lump is just a
bait. Later, he'll spring the trap for the big money." Lew slipped a
rubber band around the money and handed it to Davy.
"You had better look 'em over for counterfeit bills," retorted Davy as he
handed the money to Welborn. "This bird puts out more counterfeit
money than he does genuine.