Free Valley Thieves by Max Brand Page A

said the old man. "You know it, do you?"
    "Yes, sir," said Chuck, more breathless than before.
    "Cary cows are for sale when I say they're for sale. The time of the year don't make no difference," said the old man.
    "Yes, sir," said Chuck. "I'm sorry."
    "Sorry for what?"
    "Sorry I didn't know."
    "What didn't you know?"
    "That the cattle—I mean—I dunno."
    "You don't know what you don't know, eh? Are you a fool or ain't you a fool?"
    "No, sir," said poor Chuck. "I mean—yes, sir."
    "You got too much of your mother in you, and she's a fool woman. You hear me?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "You tell her that. Go back and tell her: 'Ma, you're a fool woman.' If she don't like that, send her to me, and I'll tell her some more."
    "Yes, sir," said Chuck. "Pa would knock hell out of me if I told her that."
    "You send your pa to me, too, then," said the old man. He looked at me. "You say you're Bill Avon, do you?"
    "Yes," said I.
    "You come to buy cattle?"
    "Yes."
    "How much money you got with you?"
    "Fourteen, fifteen dollars."
    "How many Cary cows would that buy?"
    "I was going to dicker for a sale," said I.
    "You're lyin'," said the old man. "Chuck, you was right to bring him in. You're a good boy. But what you mean by leavin' a gun on him? Take it away and fan him. We'll see what his linin' looks like!"
     

CHAPTER XI
Worse Trouble
    THERE was nothing much to be done with that old devil. It was like talking to a man with an eye that could read the brain. I wondered what even the great Jim Silver would do if he ran up against a power like that of Grandpa Cary.
    Grandpa went on cleaning a rifle and paying no attention until Chuck had heaped on an end of the bench everything from my pockets, plus the gun from my holster. There were some silver and a five-dollar greenback. There were my old pocket knife and wallet and some bits of string and a couple of nails. I always seem to have some nails around in my pockets, because you never can tell when nails will come in handy.
    I stood there like a fool, in a sort of emptiness, waiting.
    After Chuck had put my stuff on the bench, he stepped back and eyed me savagely. The rough things the old man had said to him were a grudge that the youngster passed along to me. That's the way with people bred to a certain level. As long as they can feel a good hate, they don't care in what direction it goes.
    Before he paid any attention to me, the old man growled:
    "M'ria!"
    Maria popped a door open and stood on the threshold. She gave one flash at me, and then looked to the head of the clan for orders. She was not much older than Chuck and had not yet begun to bulge with the Cary brawn. She had big bare feet, and she would grow to the bigness of them, one day, but the rest of her was slim and round and smooth enough to stand in stone forever.
    "M'ria, gimme somethin' to eat," said the old man.
    She ducked back into the other room and came again with speed enough to make her calico dress snap and flutter about her brown legs. She had a big pewter spoon, and a big earthenware bowl, and a lot of stale bread crusts dropped into the bowl. She took the cover off the pot above the fire and stirred the contents, and then dipped out enough of the broth, swimming with shreds of meat, to cover the crusts of bread.
    She gave the old man the bowl, and he held it between his knees and began to eat. He was careless about his feeding, and he made a lot of noise at it. Sometimes the soup drizzled out of the corners of his mouth, and then the girl was quick as a wink to wipe the drops away before they had a chance to fall off his lean chin. He had no teeth, of course, and that compression of his lips was one thing that helped to make his face so small, and oddly boyish. Sometimes, too, he was so casual about the way he raised the spoon that some of the soup ran down over his hand and onto his hairy arm, and the girl was always there with an edge of her apron to keep him tidy.
    When he had had all he wanted, he gave the bowl a shove.