I turned to Father Horgan and introduced a discussion of religious matters with him. Shortly, however, the lawyers cut in again. “But you could certainly use $50,000 extra. And all you have to do is put your name on this line.” They held out a paper already drawn up with an agreement for them to go ahead and sue in my name. “But I’m not interested in the law. I’m interested in mining. To enter into such a business with you, I would have to learn many new things and I’m only interested in the price of silver, in high-grade ores and such like matters.” “You don’t have to learn anything. Leave it all to us. We’ll tend to everything.” “God will look after me. I put my trust in Him—not in men.” Each time they returned to the issue of obtaining my signature, I circumvented them in some such manner for I knew what that suit meant. It meant scandal. It meant the opposing side’s digging back in the past and finding the name of Jacob Sands. There was not enough money in the world to pay me for besmirching the Tabor name, rightly or wrongly. But I did not hint at my real reasons for refusing. I merely turned to Father Horgan and asked him about another religious topic. At last they became discouraged and took their departure. When I had said good-bye and closed the door, I stealthily opened it again, just a crack curiously wondering if I could hear any of their conversation. I only caught one comment as they went over the hill. One of the lawyers was saying to Father Horgan: “Well, either that woman is the craziest woman in Colorado—or else she’s the smartest!” I closed the door and laughed merrily aloud. “Indeed!” I exclaimed. “Well, I’m neither.” I was an old woman, living on stale bread that I bought twelve loaves at a time and plate boil which I bought in dollar lots. Plate boil is a brisquet part of the beef, like suet, and very, very cheap, at the same time that it generates heat. Lucille Frazier once asked me how I could bear to live on such a diet. “Oh, I find it delectable,” I answered, “really delectable.” That statement was not entirely true. But my dainty palate that used to have champagne and oysters whenever it wanted, had changed so much with the hardships of life that it no longer craved delicacies. My tongue had lost its taste for many sweetmeats and actually found this meagre unappetizing fare satisfying—and certainly more satisfying than to accept charity! The Zaitz grocery kept me during these depression years in the necessary groceries at a very cheap rate or on credit. In addition, their delivery boys would often give me a lift from town to the cabin, sometimes breaking a trail through the snow for me.