Part 22

He was not to be blamed because he had never been able to care for herself. He should never have asked her to marry him--and yet, they had not been such bad partners. It would have been so easy for her to love him. She had loved him until he had killed her boy; since then, all her old affection had withered. But if it really had done so why was she so racked now? She felt, desperately, that she could not let him go until he had had some real joy. To think that she used to plan, cold-bloodedly, when Billy was little, all she would do if only Martin should happen to die! The memory of it smote her as with a blow. She looked down at the powerful hand lying so passively, almost, she would have said, contentedly, in her own. How she had yearned for the comfort of it when her children were born. She wondered if Martin realized her touch, if it helped a little. If it had annoyed him, he would have said so. It came to her oddly that in all the twenty-seven years she and her husband had been married this was the very first time he had let her be tender to him. Oh, his life had been bleak. Bleak! And she with such tenderness in her heart. It hadn't been right. From the depths of her rebellion and forgiveness, slow tears rose. Feeling too intensely, too mentally, to be conscious of them she sat unmoving as they rolled one by one down her cheeks and dropped unheeded.

“Rose,” he called with a soft hoarseness, “I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, Martin,” and she gave his fingers a slight squeeze as though to convince him that she was there at his side. He felt relieved. It was good to feel her hand and be sure that if his body were to give its final sign that life had slipped away someone would be there to know the very second it had happened. It was a satisfactory way to die; it took a little of the loneliness away from the experience.

“Rose,” he repeated. It sounded so new, the yearning tone in which he said it--“Rose!” It hurt. “Isn't it funny, Rose, to go like this--not sick, no accident--just dying without any real reason except that I absorbed the poison through a cut so small my eyes couldn't see it.”

“It's a mystery, dear,” the little word limped out awkwardly, “but God's ways are not ours.”

“Not a mystery,” he corrected, “just a heap of tricks; funny ones, sad ones, sensible ones, and crazy ones--and of all the crazy ones this is the worst. But, what's the use? If there's a God, as you believe, it doesn't do any good to argue with Him, and if it's as I think and there's no God, there's no one to argue with. But never mind about that now--it's no matter. You'll listen carefully, won't you, Rose?”

“Yes, Martin.”

“This abortion in the herd. You know what a terrible thing it is.”

“I certainly do; it's the cause of your leaving me.”

“Rose, I know you'll be busy during the next few days--me dying, the things that have to be arranged, the funeral and all that. But when it's all over, you'll let that be the first thing, won't you?”

“Yes, the very first thing, if you wish it.”

“I do. Get Dr. Hurton on the job at once, and have him fight it. He knows his business. Let him come twice a day until he's sure it's out of the herd. Keep that new bull out of the pasture. And if Hurton can't clean it up, you'd better get rid of the herd before it gets known around the country. You know how news of that kind travels. Don't try to handle the sale yourself. If you do, it'll be a mistake. The prices will be low if you get only a county crowd.”

“Neighbors usually bid low,” she agreed.

“Run up to Topeka and see Baker--he's the sales manager of the Holstein Breeders' Association. Let him take charge of it all--he's a straight fellow. He'll charge you enough--fifteen per cent of the gross receipts, but then he'll see to it that the people who want good stuff will be there. He knows how and where to advertise. He's got a big list of names, and can send out letters to the people that count. He'll bring buyers from Iowa down to Texas. Remember his name--Baker.”

“Yes, Martin--Baker.”

“I think you ought to sell the herd anyway,” he went on. “I know you, Rose; you'll be careless about the papers--no woman ever realizes how important it is to have the facts for the certificates of registry and transfer just right. I'm afraid you'll fall down there and get the records mixed. You won't get the dates exact and the name and number of each dam and sire. Women are all alike there--they never seem to realize that a purebred without papers is just a good grade.”

Rose made no comment, while Martin changed his position slowly and lost himself in thought.

“Yes, I guess it's the only thing to do--to get rid of the purebred stuff. God Almighty! It's taken me long enough to build up that herd, but a few weeks from now they'll be scattered to the four winds. Well, it can't be helped. Try to sell them to men who understand something of their value. And that reminds me, Rose. You always speak of them as thoroughbreds. It always did get on my nerves. That's right for horses, but try to remember that cows are purebreds. You'll make that mistake before men who know. Those little things are important. Remember it, won't you?”

“Thoroughbred for a horse, and purebred for a cow,” Rose repeated willingly.

“When you get your money for the stock put it into mortgages--first mortgages, not seconds. Let that be a principle with you. Many a holder of a second mortgage has been left to hold the sack. You must remember that the first mortgage comes in for the first claim after taxes, and if the foreclosure doesn't bring enough to satisfy more than that, the second mortgage is sleeping on its rights.”

“First mortgages, not seconds,” said Rose.

“And while I'm on that, let me warn you about Alex Tracy, four miles north and a half mile east, on the west side of the road. He's a slippery cuss and you'll have to watch him.”

“Alex Tracy, four miles north--”

“You'll find my mortgage for thirty-seven hundred in my box at the bank. He's two coupons behind in his interest. I made him give me a chattel on his growing corn. Watch him--he's treacherous. He may think he can sneak around because you're a woman and stall you. He's just likely to turn his hogs into that corn. Your chattel is for growing corn, not for corn in a hog's belly. If he tries any dirty business get the sheriff after him.”

“It's on the GROWING corn,” said Rose.

“And here's another important point--taxes. Don't pay any taxes on mortgages. What's the use of giving the politicians more money to waste? Hold on to your bank stock and arrange to have all mortgages in the name of the bank, not in your own. They pay taxes on their capital and surplus, not on their loans. But be sure to get a written acknowledgment on each mortgage from Osborne. He's square, but you can't ever tell what changes might take place and then there might be some question about mortgages in the bank's name.”

“Keep them in the bank's name,” said Rose.

“And a written acknowledgment,” Martin stressed.