“Gentlemen, if you’ll just sign the paper, we’ll be in business,” Quentin said, holding his hand out toward the desk where Gilmore stood with the paper and a pen, ready for the other ranchers to sign. Gillespie, Peters, and the other three ranchers present signed. But when it came time for Colby to sign, he hesitated.
“Are you going to sign, or not?” Gilmore asked.
“I don’t know,” Colby replied. “I was all right with the idea of joining our herds. But the land? I’m not so good with that. After the war, I come out here from Missouri and started cowboyin’. I liked the work, and I never worked for a boss that I didn’t like. But from the time I first come here, I always had it in my mind to someday own me my own ranch. Well, after a lot of hard work, I finally managed to get my own spread. Oh, it ain’t much, I guess, considerin’ the size of some of the other ranches hereabout. But it’s mine. Now, if I join up with this corporation you’re talkin’ about, it won’t be mine anymore. I’ll be right back where I started, just another cowhand working someone else’s ranch.
“That’s not true,” Quentin said. “You won’t be an employee of the ranch, you’ll be one of the owners, a partner in a ranch that is bigger than anything you’ve ever dreamed of.”
“Consider this, Colby,” Gillespie said. “If you don’t join, you’ll be even smaller, compared to what we will be. You’ll be squeezed out of business in no time at all.”
“Listen to what Gillespie is saying, Colby,” Quentin said. “He’s tellin’ you like it is.”
“James, me an’ you been friends ever since you come out here,” Peters said to Colby. “I think Gillespie is makin’ sense. I don’t think you got no other choice, but to join up with the rest of us.”
“But what about the men we’d need to work an outfit this large?” Colby asked. “Won’t we have to hire a lot more men?”
“Not really,” Quentin replied. “Because we’ll be poolin’ all our cowboys so we won’t need any more men than what we already have.”
“I only got two hands workin’ for me and I do as much or more than either of them. Now, I don’t mind doin’ it for my own ranch, but looks like the way this is settin’ up, I’ll wind up workin’ for the company.”
“Ah, but don’t forget. You are the company,” Quentin said.
“A company’s got to have a boss, don’t it?” Colby asked.
“Yes, of course,” Quentin replied. “Where would any outfit be without a boss?”
“Then that means I’ll be workin’ for that boss.”
“By the way, how do we select the boss?” Peters asked.
“We’ll vote.”
“Each of us get a vote?”
“Yes.”
“Well, in that case, I don’t reckon it’ll be all that bad,” Peters said.
“One vote for each percentage point of the ranch that you own,” Quentin said.
“Wait a minute. So if I own six percent, I get six votes?”
“Yes.”
“And you get eighty-seven votes?” Peters asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you are the only vote that counts.”
“If you want to put it that way,” Quentin replied.
“What the hell, Peters, Quentin is the biggest rancher here, and this was his idea,” Gillespie said. “When you think about it, it only makes sense that he be the boss.”
“I suppose you are right.”
Although Colby was holding the pen, he had still not signed the paper. Now, he put the pen down.
“James, what are you doin’?” Peters asked.
“I’m sorry,” Colby said. “I just can’t do it. I worked too hard to get my own ranch. I just can’t give it away like this.”
“Mr. Colby,” Quentin said. “I have to do what is best for all of us. That means that if you don’t join us, you won’t be able to survive, you will have no market for your cattle, and your ranch will be squeezed out. You’ll be lucky if you have enough money to buy a ticket back to Missouri.”
“Yeah? Well, at least I’ll be my own boss,” Colby said. “Good-bye, gents.” He started toward the door.
“Colby?” Quentin called.
Colby turned back toward Quentin. “Yes?”
“Don’t take this personally. It’s pure business.”
“I’m sure it is,” Colby said.
“Gentlemen,” Quentin said after Colby left, “we have made good progress here, today. I will start buying Hereford cattle to build our new herd, and to strengthen that herd, I plan to acquire at least one champion Hereford bull. I thank you for your confidence and support.”
Chapter Three
Big Rock, Colorado
The stagecoach rolling out of Big Rock, bound for the nearby town of Mitchell, met four riders who were just coming into town. The stage diver nodded at the riders, who nodded back. The riders passed by the WELCOME TO BIG ROCK sign, which was just before the blacksmith shop, where sparks were flying from the heated iron wheel-band the smithy was working with his hammer. As they came deeper into town, they rode on by the butcher shop where the butcher, Stan Virden, was sweeping his front porch; by the feed store, where a wagon was being loaded; and the apothecary, where a painter was touching up the mortar-and-pestle sign that was suspended from the porch overhang.
Just up the street from the riders was a building with a huge sign that was an oversized boot.
BIG
ROCK
BOOTS
& SADDLES
An outside set of stairs ran up the north wall of the leather goods store, and at the top of the stairs the printed sign on the door read:
STEVE WARREN
Cattle Broker
Smoke Jensen, owner of Sugarloaf Ranch, had come to see Steve, to arrange a sales contract for his beeves.
At six feet one inch, Smoke Jensen was an impressive man. He was broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, and his biceps were as thick as most men’s thighs. Though he was still a relatively young man, stories about him were legend, both true and false. The irony was that many of the true stories were even more dramatic than the myths that abounded.
Smoke had never really known his mother, and when he was barely in his teens, he went with his father into the mountains to follow the fur trade. The father and son teamed up with a legendary mountain man called Preacher. For some reason unknown even to Preacher, the mountain man took to the boy and began to teach him the ways of the mountains: how to live when others would die, how to be a man of your word, and how to fear no other living creature. On the first day they met, Preacher, whose real name was Art, gave Kirby Jensen a new name. For reasons known only to himself, Preacher began calling Kirby “Smoke.” Later, when Smoke’s father was killed by outlaws, young Kirby Jensen hunted them down and killed them. That action was the birth of the legend of Smoke Jensen.
Now, he was married and settled down as a rancher, and his Sugarloaf Ranch was known as one of the finest cattle spreads in the entire state of Colorado. And his ranch, as were many other ranches, was in the process of transition. Texas longhorns, a breed of cattle that had been the staple of Western beef production for many years now, were gradually being replaced by new breeds, such as the Angus and the Hereford.
“I hate to tell you this, Smoke, but it looks like about the best we can come up with is seven dollars a head,” the cattle broker said.
Smoke was standing at the window, looking down onto the street, watching as the four men came riding into town. There was nothing particularly unusual about them—it wasn’t even that unusual for four riders to arrive together. Nevertheless, there was something about them that triggered some deep-set instinct. He couldn’t put his finger on it—but something about them nagged at him. He turned away from the window when he heard Steve’s offer.