“Hrmmph,” Ben said. He spit out a quid of tobacco. “At least you got enough sense to know which side of the seat to sit on.”
When all of the passengers were on board, Ben clambered up onto the driver’s seat, spit out another quid of tobacco, then snapped the long whip over the head of his team. The pop of the whip was as loud as a pistol shot, and the coach started forward.
They had been on the road for about fifteen minutes without either of them saying a word.
“How come you ain’t asked me?” Ben asked.
“Asked you what?”
“Asked me how long it’s goin’ to be before we get to where we’re goin’.”
“You’re the one drivin’,” Pearlie replied. “All I have to do is just sit here. I figure we’ll get there when we get there.”
Ben chuckled, and it was the first time since they had met that Pearlie had seen anything other than a frown on his face.
“You figure we’ll get there when we get there,” Ben repeated. “Yes, sir, Pearlie, I think you may just work out all right.”
Chapter Two
Santa Clara, Colorado
One hundred and seventy-five miles southeast of Sugarloaf, at a ranch called the Tumbling Q, near the small railroad town of Santa Clara, a meeting was being held. Attending the meeting were all the ranchers whose own spreads lay within a twenty-mile radius of the Tumbling Q. The breed of choice for the ranchers was the Texas longhorn. Most had been running the longhorn ever since they started ranching. The longhorn was a hardy breed, a breed that could survive drought and find something to eat where little forage seemed available.
Today, the ranchers were complaining bitterly over the fact that the market for longhorns was dropping. The meeting had been called by Pogue Quentin, the biggest rancher in the county and owner of the Tumbling Q.
“It’s these damn Herefords,” Peters said. Peters owned a neighboring ranch. “That’s all the slaughterhouses is wantin’ now, and they ain’t willin’ to pay enough for our cows for us to make any money at all. In fact, at the way this is goin’, by the time it’s all said and done, we’ll be lucky to hang on to our ranches.”
Gillespie held up his hands to quiet the group; then he nodded toward Quentin, who had been watching and listening to the whole thing. So far, Quentin had said nothing.
“Quentin, you called this here meeting,” Gillespie said. “So I figure that means you must have an idea or two.”
“Yeah, Quentin, you said you had a way we could beat this. What have you got in mind?”
Quentin, who had been sitting quietly in a chair near the window, stood up. A very heavyset man, he was clean shaven, and had a ring of white hair that circled his head and left the top bald and shining.
“Gentlemen, the time of the longhorn has gone,” he said. “We may as well face facts.”
“What do you mean by face facts?” Peters asked.
“I mean, you may as well face facts that if you are running a herd of longhorns, you ain’t goin’ to be makin’ any money from ’em. So your best bet is to get rid of ’em.”
“Get rid of ’em how? If nobody wants them, what are we goin’ to do, shoot ’em?”
“Oh, the market for longhorns is dwindling to be sure, but there is still some market there, so it is going to become a matter of supply and demand. If we control the supply, we can have some input into the demand.”
“And just how the hell are we supposed to control supply?” Gillespie asked.
“My suggestion would be for us to form a corporation. A cattle corporation. We’ll join all our ranches and our herds together. We’ll be able to control supply that way, because we will approach the market as a single supplier.”
“How would something like that work?” James Colby, one of the other ranchers, asked.
“It’s really very simple,” Quentin answered. “All we have to do is merge our ranches and our cattle into one large ranch and cattle company.”
“One large ranch? I don’t know about that. Who would own it?”
“We would all own it,” Quentin said. “We would each own a share of the company in proportion with what we put into it.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“All right, let’s say we put all our cattle together, and we come up with one hundred head,” Quentin said, starting to explain.
“Ha, I got more than a hunnert head all by my own self,” Colby said.
The others laughed, and Quentin held up his hand as if telling him to wait. “I’m using a hundred head so I can explain it. Now, if we have one hundred head, and you put in two cows, Gillespie puts in six cows, and Peters puts in ten cows, you will own two percent of the company, Gillespie will own six percent of the company, and Peters will own ten percent.”
“Who owns the rest?”
“We all own the rest, according to how many head of cattle we put in. I’ll own most of the company, because I have the most cattle.”
“And you say we’re doin’ that so we can control the market?”
“Yes.”
“All right, I’ll put my cattle in,” Colby said.
“And your ranch,” Quentin added.
“My ranch? What do you mean, my ranch?”
“If we are going to make this a corporation, then it has to have some substance,” Quentin said. “Look, we all agree that we are going to have to switch over to Herefords, don’t we?”
“Well, yes,” Colby said. “That’s what we need to do.”
“Can you afford to do that right now?”
“No.”
“Don’t feel bad about it, most of us are in the same boat.”
“No, we ain’t,” Colby said. “We’re all in a rowboat, but you are in a ship. You’re the biggest rancher in the county.”
The others laughed at Colby’s analogy.
“Yes, but compared to some of the other ranchers in the state, the Tumbling Q might be considered small. However, if we joined all our ranches into one ranch, we would be as big as anyone else.”
“So, you want me to give you my ranch?”
“No, you won’t be giving your ranch to me. You will be buying into the corporation with your ranch, which will make you a part owner,” Quentin said. “Don’t you see? With one big ranch, we’ll have enough power to go to any bank in the state and take out a loan for as much money as we need to buy Herefords. I propose that we join all our ranches into one big ranch, with each of us owning a percentage of that ranch—then we sell the entire herd of longhorns, use what money we get from that sale, plus what we can borrow on the ranch, and buy Herefords.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Gillespie agreed.
“I guess it makes sense,” Peters added. “I do have a question, though.”
“What is your question?”
“When this is all put together, what percentage will you own?”
“I’ve had Lawyer Gilmore draw up the papers for us,” Quentin replied. “Mr. Gilmore, can you answer Mr. Peters’ question?”
Gilmore cleared his throat, then read from a piece of paper. “Given the value of the various ranches, as appraised by the county tax commission, and the number of head of cattle each of you will be bringing to this enterprise, Mr. Quentin will own eighty-seven percent.”
“Eighty-seven percent? Isn’t that a lot? I mean, if we sell our herd, that means you get eighty-seven percent of the money we make?”
“It also means I’m responsible for eighty-seven percent of the cost of operation,” Quentin pointed out. “Unless you want to assume a larger percentage of the expenses.”
“No, no, I—I guess you are right,” Peters agreed.
Quentin smiled. “But that’s not the way to look at it, Peters,” he said. “Remember, the whole idea is that we are partners of the whole. All of you will be part owners of the Tumbling Q ranch.”
“Yeah,” Gillespie said. “Yeah, I like that idea.”