"Cows!" said Lancaster, in disgust. "Cows don' help a country; don' raise th' price o' lan'."
"Cows or no cows, your place here's worth a nice little sum," protested the other, condescendingly; "hunderd, anyway."
Lancaster stared. "Hunderd!" he cried. "You got th' grass staggers. _Five_ hunderd."
Braden pursed his lips, his thumbs in his armholes again. "Three hunderd and fifty, say," he compromised. "_I'd_ be willin' t' give you _that_."
A moment since, the section-boss had been downcast. Now, he guffawed. "_Would y'?_" he asked; "_would y'?_" There was a sage gleam in his eye.
Lancaster sucked his teeth importantly. "Y' couldn' hev it a cent short o' seven hunderd an' fifty," he declared.
"You'll never get it, sir, _never_. Five hunderd's a spankin' figger."
"Telling you what's what. There's thousands of acres around here just as good as your'n any day in the week. But you got this end of the ford. That makes a little difference."
"Makes 'bout fifteen hunderd dollars' diff'rence."
It was Braden's turn to laugh. "My friend, you'll hist to two thousand pretty soon," he warned; and arose. "Better take five hunderd and fifty when it's offered." He flung out his hands as if he were feeding hens.
Lancaster got up with him, righteously angry. "Say, _you_ ain't no South'ner," he cried. "Jes' a slick Yank. Ah c'n see through you like winda-pane!"
Braden laughed again, tapping the shoulder of the section-boss. "You ain't wise," he confided. "Farmin' out here with cows around means fences. But hang on if you want to. It's your land." He ended this with a jovial slap, and made for the door. From it, he could see the girls. He gave them a magnificent bow. "Mornin', mornin'," he said, and walked out.
Lancaster went back to the hearth, fairly weak with delight. Dallas and Marylyn joined him. "W'at d' y' think!" gurgled their father. "Say, he ain't got th' sense he ought 'a' been born with!"
At that the section-boss calmed. "Wal," he said, "he's as good anyhow as slop-over soldiers."
Meanwhile, Braden was on his way to The Trooper's Delight, his face glum, his step quick, his arms cutting the air like propellers. When he lumbered into it, he creaked up to the plank bar and helped himself to a finger of whisky. Then he propped himself on an elbow and stood scowling into the rear of the room.