“But that don’t make him feel no better, knowin’ that. And he may cause some trouble. So remember you got to have thirty-five thousand dollars by April first. You’d better ship the first week in March.” “Don’t worry, Dad. Leave it to me. We’ll ship ’em. I’ve got ’em off before. I can do it again.” A. B. Meyers, known in that part of the country as “A. B.,” himself an old-timer, figured with Old Man Daniels as one of the biggest cattlemen in that part of Texas. He had disputed the open range with Dad for twenty years, and the enmities of the cattle country were still bitter at the time of the Great War. A. B.’s range touched Los Ranchos land at two points. And A. B. fought secretly and openly for every piece of property that Daniels would be likely to want. It had been nip and tuck, with Dad getting the best of it two-thirds of the time. Two years before, the Valley Grant, a rich range that Meyers had been after for five years, had been granted by the Land Office to Old Man Daniels. Neither his popularity nor his influence had succeeded in winning him this new range, but the fact that he was a sounder business man than A. B., and one whose dealings were absolutely square. Dad had then borrowed money from the bank to acquire the intervening land, thus extending his range enormously. He had also bought some new stock, and for two years had not sold any cattle in order to increase the stock on the fresh range. Then the War had come and he had had to begin selling his cattle. “But when it comes to sellin’, have nothin’ to do with these travelin’ commission men,” Dad impressed Raquel for the fiftieth time. “There’s bound to be a lot of ’em prowlin’ around durin’ this war, or I miss my guess. Beware of ’em. “You sell straight to Cudalow’s in Kansas City or Shift’s in Chicago, an’ rest content at the market price. Bank everything an’ go slow. Guess that’s all. “Jimmy,” as Jimmy himself came round the veranda end, “Jimmy here, says he’ll be able to get off maybe every couple of months, an’ he’ll come out an’ cheer you all up.” On the stillness of the December air, chill with the penetrating cold that steals into your bones with sundown in that altitude, clanged the welcome note of the dinner bell. Not all ranch houses boast a dining-room, but Los Ranchos had rooms to spare. The rambling old building, once a fort, later a road house, was high-ceilinged, deep-walled, to the width of three full adobe bricks, and built around a fifty-foot square patio, in the fashion of the country. Old Man Daniels led the way through the house to the patio, and along the veranda to the dining-room. As he opened the door a wave of warmth and light streamed out. A large baseburner glowed where once had been a fireplace, and this, with the heat from the kitchen and from an acetylene lamp hanging over the table, made the big room comfortable.