I was plenty scared about this new move and so was he. It's just like riding into a ford where the water is stained with snow or mud and running high, and where there ain't no low bank on the other side. You don't know how it is, but you have to chance it. It looked bad to me and it did to him; but we had rid into such places before together and we both knew we had to do it now. "Colonel," says I at last to him, "I don't like it none, but I got to go through with you if you want me to." He sort of hit the side of my knee with the back of his hand, like he said: "It's a trade." And it was a trade. That's how come us to move from Wyoming to Chicago, looking for some of them Better Things. II WHERE WE THREW IN "Well, Curly," says Old Man Wright to me one day a couple of months after we had our first talk, "I done it!" "You sold her?" says I. "Yes," says he. "How much did you set 'em back, Colonel?" says I; and he says they give him a million and a half down, or something like that, and the balance of four million and a quarter deferred, one, two, three. That's more money than all Wyoming is worth, let alone the Yellow Bull Valley, which we own. "That's a good deal of money deferred, ain't it, Colonel?" says I. "Well, I don't blame 'em," he says. "If I had to pay anybody three or four million dollars I'd defer it as long as I could. Besides, I'm thinking they'll defer it more than one, two and three years if they wait for them grangers to pay 'em back their money with what they can raise. "But ain't it funny how you and me made all that money? It's a proof of what industry and economy can do when they can't help theirselfs. When Tug Patterson wished this range on me forty years ago I hated him sinful. Yet we run the ditches in from year to year, gradual, and here we are! "Well, now," he goes on, "they want possession right away. We got to pull our freight. You and me, Curly, we ain't got no home no more." That was the truth. In three weeks we was on our way, turned out in the world like orphans. Still, Old Man Wright he just couldn't bear to leave without one more whirl with the boys down at the Cheyenne Club. He was gone down there several days; and when he come back he was hungry, but not thirsty. "It's no use, Curly," says he. "It's my weakness and I shore deplore it; but I can't seem to get the better of my ways." "How much did you lose, Colonel?" I ast him. "Lose?" says he. "I didn't lose nothing. I win four sections of land and five hundred cows. I didn't go to do it and I'm sorry; because, what am I going to do with them cows?" "Deed 'em to Bonnie Bell," says I. "Trust 'em out to some square fellow you know on shares. We may need 'em for a stake sometime." "That's a good idea," says he. "Not that I'm scared none of going broke. Money comes to me--I can't seem to shoo it away." "I never had so much trouble," says I, "but if you're feeling liberal give me a chaw of tobacco and let's talk things over."