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mother's death, there had been no word from Bull. Now there wouldn't be any.
"What do you know about this attorney, Doyle Pettit?" With a narrowed look,
Bulfert eyed Webb through the smoke of his cigar.
Webb's head came up, some instinct telling him this was the purpose behind the
senator's visit. "I've known Doyle all my life. He took over the Teepee Ranch
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when his father, Tom Pettit, died about ten years back, and he owns a couple
businesses in town. Why?" He was scant with his information until he learned
the reason for the question.
"I had a look at the property rolls a couple of weeks ago. He's got title to,
or claim to, nearly three-quarters of a million acres."
The size of Pettit's holdings surprised Webb, but he didn't show it. He
finished lighting his cigar with a new match, shook out the flame, and tossed
the dead match into the fireplace. Doyle had amassed a lot of land very
quietly-through the bank he owned, obviously, buying up the claims of
homesteaders who had given up. He remembered Doyle's land, scheme of buy and
sell, buy and sell.
He looked at the map on the wall. Doyle Pettit. That fun-loving, always
smiling boyhood friend who laughed and rarely fought. He'd always been
something of a show-off, buying the first automobile in the area and wearing
spiffy clothes, free with his money, buying drinks for his friends and quick
to loan a ten-spot to a hard-up man. Doyle had always managed to become the
center of attention. Quietly, so quietly, he had obtained control of nearly
three-quarters of a million acres-almost the size of the Triple C.
The man had always been something of a peacemaker, never liking arguments or
hard feelings. He rode the fence, never taking sides. The ranchers regarded
him as Tom Pettit's son, one of them, and the drylanders looked on him as
their friend.
The longer Webb looked at the map, the more uneasy he felt. It made no sense
to think Doyle's massive land acquisitions were a threat. They'd known each
other too many years. They hadn't always been close, but Doyle just wasn't the
kind to move against another man. That wasn't his way. Yet Webb was bothered
by the discovery of how big Doyle had grown in such a short period of time.
But his comment to the politician revealed he'd known of it. "When this boom
started, Pettit began speculating in land," he admitted.
"If this drought keeps up"-a wryness touched the expression on the senator's
face-"he's going to find out he owns land in a dozen other states. The wind's
blowing away what he's got here."
Webb's mouth twitched in silent and bitter agreement. Inwardly he was
thinking, Thank God for the grass that covered Calder land and held the soil
together.
The heavy buffalo robe was bunched around his chin, warming the air Simon
breathed, his head bobbing in sleep. His black medical bag sat on the
floorboards of the buggy near his feet, with the buffalo robe draped over it
as well. Even though automobiles were a faster form of transportation, Simon
Bardolph preferred his horse and buggy. It might be slower, but there were
fewer breakdowns; it could travel cross-country over terrain an auto couldn't
traverse; and if Simon fell asleep, as he usually did, he could be sure of the
horse staying on the road and not crashing into some ditch.
The ewe-necked gelding stopped in front of the shanty where a small light
glowed in the window. It turned its head and whickered quietly at the man
sleeping in the buggy. The sound stirred no response. With almost a disgusted
snort, the horse laid back its ears and launched a kick at the buggy, jolting
its owner awake.
Simon opened his eyes with a frowning reluctance and looked around for a blank
minute before recognizing Kreuger's place. He pushed aside the buffalo robe
and shivered at the early-evening coldness. A horse blanket was stowed in the
rear of the buggy. He shook it out and draped it over the gelding, tossed some
grain into a nose bag, and slipped the bit out of its mouth before putting the
grain bag on. After the horse was taken care of, he lifted his black satchel
out of the buggy and walked to the shanty.
Franz Kreuger opened the door when Simon knocked. The smell of sickness was in
the small and drafty shack. Simon supposed he would never get used to the
odor. The cloth curtain that usually partitioned off the sleeping quarters had
been removed to let the heat from the cookstove reach to the farthest corner
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where the bunks were stacked.
Simon had called on the family too many times to waste his energy exchanging
pleasantries with Franz Kreuger, because the gesture wouldn't be returned. As
he shrugged out of his coat, he looked over at the two older children lying in
their parents' bed, and his third patient in a lower bunk. A gaunt and
hollow-eyed Helga Kreuger was sitting on the edge of the bunk, attempting to [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]