Horse of a Different Color (10 page)

Bob would have jumped right in, but I could see no reason for paying interest until we actually needed the money, and since George felt as he did about the market I doubted that prices would rise to any great extent, so I told Bones, “I’d like to put in another batch after we’ve sold this one, but I think five hundred steers and half as many pigs should be the limit, and I don’t want to buy feed more than a month before it’s needed.”

I didn’t work my territory during the last two weeks of August, but spent all my spare time grinding feed to put our steers in top-notch condition. When we loaded them onto the cars they were as near perfect as any feed-lot cattle I’d seen, and our hogs were equally good. Unfortunately the last weekend of August was the hottest of the summer, so our shipping shrinkage was almost twice as high as on our first shipment, but we still came out wonderfully well. Three carloads of our steers and two cars of our hogs topped the market, with the others close behind. Bob stood proudly beside the auctioneer as owner of the steers, and I stood as owner of the hogs. But the net receipts, of course, had to be paid directly to the bank at Cedar Bluffs.

The day we got home and settled with Bones was one of the proudest of my life. After paying every dime I owed, I sent my mother a check that left my bank balance an even nineteen thousand, five hundred dollars. Bob’s share brought his debt down to barely more than eight thousand, and there seemed little doubt that he could pay it off by the end of the year.

By the following Friday evening we’d bought our full quota of steers and pigs for our next operation, and feed enough to last us a month. The stock was delivered on the fourth of September, and that afternoon Bob and I signed notes for our new loans. Bones insisted that he have a mortgage on all our stock and the feed we’d bought, but didn’t ask either of us for a mortgage on our corn crop.

With seven hundred and fifty head of stock in the feed lot and my trading business to take care of, I was busy from dawn till dark and had no reason to go to Cedar Bluffs in more than two weeks. Then, on the twenty-first of September, Bones phoned and told Marguerite that he’d like to see me at the bank right away. When I went in he asked me to come back to his desk, looked around as if to make sure that Dave Sawyer, the cashier, wasn’t listening, and said in a low whisper, “You’ll have to keep this strictly to yourself, but I’ve got to . . . ”

Then he seemed to catch himself and change his mind. He cleared his throat and started all over again, “No, son, I can’t tell you what I was about to, but I’ll say this much: it would be best for you and Bob to take out loans enough now to cover whatever feed you’ll need till the end of the year. I’ll make the due date January fourth, like your other notes, so you’ll be in a good safe position if anything should happen.”

I signed a note bringing my loan up to twenty thousand dollars, and said I’d have Bob drop in to sign his, but I did it only because there was something about Bones’s behavior that left me no doubt of his absolute sincerity. He walked to the door when I went, laid a hand on my shoulder, and told me, “Son, it’s been good to do . . . ” Then he turned and, without another word, walked slowly back to his desk. I left the bank as puzzled as ever in my life, but I never told anyone what Bones had said to me, though I had Bob go in and sign a new note.

On the last Monday in September the whole township was abuzz, for there was a terse announcement in the
McCook Gazette
, “Harry S. Kennedy of Cedar Bluffs reports that he has sold 90 shares of stock of the First State Bank of Cedar Bluffs at $400 per share. Atwood men to take over the bank.”

The next morning Bones phoned for Bob and me to come up and meet the new bankers. When he introduced me he said some nice things about my having arrived there as a harvest hand and become one of the most successful livestock traders and feeders in western Kansas. The new men seemed friendly enough, but I couldn’t help the feeling that they were looking me over in the same way Bob and I looked over a steer when considering whether or not to accept him. When we left, one of them walked to the door with us and said pompously, “Bank examiners are due here in a few days, and like as not there’ll be some scuttlebutt whispered about, but don’t pay it any mind. We’re putting in enough new capital to make this little bank as strong as The Bank of England.”

The rise in feed and livestock prices that Bones had predicted was short-lived and followed by a sharp decline. By the end of October corn had dropped below a dollar a bushel, prime steers were down two dollars a hundred, and bacon hogs more than three. But I could see nothing for Bob and me to worry about; there was plenty of time for livestock prices to recover before our stock would be ready to ship at the end of December, and the lower corn went the less our feed would cost.

10

A Skunk under the Woodpile

T
HE FIRST HALF
of November was wonderful for Bob and me. Our corn crop shucked out better than eighty bushels to the acre, the price of prime steers bounced up a full dollar, and hogs not only stopped their plunge but turned upward twenty-five cents. Besides that, our stock was gaining weight faster than any we’d fed, and there seemed no possible doubt that we’d make an enormous profit when we shipped at the end of the year. The only disturbing market factor was that the price of wheat took a sharp tumble at the middle of the month, though corn held fairly steady.

Sunday evening I went for a visit with George Miner, to find out what he thought had caused the sudden drop in the wheat market. He was more concerned than I’d ever seen him, and told me, “If I don’t miss my guess, there’s a skunk under the woodpile, and I’ve been smellin’ him ever since the first of the month. The big grain speculators in Chicago must know about somethin’ goin’ on in the world that the politicians down to Washington are holdin’ back from the farmers, and that’s what is drivin’ the price of wheat down. It’s been slippin’ off steady for six months now, but the crop was smaller this year than last. That’s pretty good proof that the demand has gone all to pot, and the only reason I can think of is that Europe has raised a good enough crop to feed its own people. If that’s so, you’re goin’ to see some mighty tough times ahead for American farmers, what with the way the government’s kept us increasin’ production since the war end. If my guess is worth a tinker, farmers won’t be the only ones to get hurt neither. Maybe we’ve been wastin’ our tears over Bones for havin’ to sell that bank stock.”

George walked to the gate when I left, and told me, “I didn’t aim to make it sound like the whole shootin’ match was goin’ to the bow-wows, and I hope my runnin’ off at the mouth didn’t upset you none. What with corn fallin’ only a nickel, and fat cattle gainin’ back most of their loss, and hogs on the way up again, it don’t look to me like you and Bob have too much to worry about. It’s only six weeks till you’ll be shippin’, and it ain’t likely that we’ll run into any trouble to speak of before the end of the year. But if I was in your boots I’d be a mite leery, come January, about puttin’ another big bunch of cattle and hogs on feed. Good night, son, and don’t lose no sleep over what I’ve said to you. Irene give me mince pie for supper, and it could be I’m lookin’ at the dark side of things on account of it layin’ heavy in my stomach.”

When Bob and I were in Kansas City in August, the
Kansas City Star
had just completed a radio sending station so powerful that it could be heard clearly for five hundred miles. Every noon one of the newspaper men at the stockyards broadcast the market report for the day, telling how much stock of each type had arrived and the high and low price each grade had brought at the morning auctions. I bought an instruction book on building radio receivers and the materials for a crystal set, but was so busy after we got home that I didn’t get it finished and working well until corn-shucking time. Half the farmers in Beaver Township wanted a radio as soon as they’d heard mine, so I agreed to build one for anybody who would shuck a hundred bushels of corn for us and send to Sears Roebuck for materials. The materials arrived the Monday after I’d had my visit with George, so I fixed up a bench in the bunkhouse and spent every moment I could spare from feeding and trading on radio building. As I worked I picked up nearly everything coming over the air, and the more I heard the more it seemed to me that George was right. The price of wheat slipped off another dime, corn dropped to sixty cents, and hogs nose-dived three dollars, though fat steers held steady.

By the end of the week I was so worried I could hardly sleep, but Bob was gay and carefree as a robin in May, for he’d believe anything that was to his advantage and nothing to his disadvantage. When I tried to explain the nine-month hog cycle, the fact that the upward phase had ended in September didn’t bother him at all. He laughed uproariously and told me, “Shucks, the only trouble is that them hogs don’t know they’ve fell off’n their cycle yet. Soon as they find it out they’ll get up and start to running like the devil was after ’em. And when they do you’ll see the market jump right back to twenty dollars or better. Did ever you try to stop a scairt hog when he got to running?”

After that I never tried to discuss the market with Bob, but all that kept me from going for another visit with George was that I didn’t want to act like a scared kid. The day before Thanksgiving hogs took another sharp drop. When the broadcast ended I was willing to admit being scared. I saddled Kitten and had ridden to the Miners’ front gate before I noticed the McCook taxi standing in the dooryard. George had all his cattle corralled, and there were two well-dressed strangers with him, looking them over. I didn’t think anyone had seen me, so turned Kitten back for home, my mouth dry with nervousness and worry.

As soon as I’d unsaddled I set to work on a radio requiring enough concentration to leave no room for worry. I had no idea how long I’d been working on it when the bunkhouse door opened and George came in. “Reckoned I’d drop by and see how you go about makin’ one of them contraptions,” he told me as he ooched his behind up onto the bench beside the coil I was winding.

For maybe ten minutes I tried to tell him about sound waves and frequencies, and things like that, but we both knew that we were only making talk. At last he chuckled and told me, “I’ll be jiggered if I ain’t gettin’ to be as superstitious as Effie. Reckon I’d light out and run myself to death if a black cat was to cross the road in front of me.”

Trying to act offhand, I kept my eyes on the coil and asked, “What are you getting superstitious about?”

“Well,” he told me, “like Effie’d say, the moon ain’t in exactly the right phase for settin’ a hen, and it’s seemed to me like the stink from under the woodpile was gettin’ a mite ranker here of late. So when a couple of buyers from Ioway happened past this afternoon, lookin’ for Hereford breedin’ stock, I let ’em have a few carloads to be shipped Saturday.”

I still didn’t look up, but asked, “What did you do, run advertisements in the Iowa newspapers?”

“Oh, a couple of ’em,” he said. “You know, I ain’t as young as what I used to be, and Irene’s been at me of late to take things easier. Without us havin’ a boy of our own, and with good help hard to come by, I reckoned I might as leave cut the herd down to a few good heifers.”

“Do you think it’s getting dangerous enough that Bob and I ought to ship our stock this weekend?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t say so,” he said thoughtfully. “Before I come in I stopped by the scales and lost a couple of dimes to Bob. Your steers look mighty good for bein’ less than ninety days on corn, but Bob says they need another month to top ’em out real good, and I’d agree with him. If you was to ship now you’d do well to get thirteen dollars a hundred at the auctions, and you’d take an awful lickin’ on your hogs. They need another month’s growth to bring ’em up to bacon size, and it’s plumb crazy for hogs to be sellin’ like they are now, at six-fifty below fat cattle. One or both of ’em’s got to move till the gap’s no more’n two dollars, and I can’t believe fat cattle will take any such a drop till things get a lot worse than what they are now.”

For the rest of the month the news coming over the air wasn’t disturbing enough to keep me awake nights. Then, on December first, the fat cattle market went to pieces like a homesteader’s shack in a cyclone. By the fourth the price of prime steers had dropped from $16.75 to $12.85. But instead of coming up to help close the gap, bacon hogs dropped to $9.75, though wheat remained steady and corn actually went up a nickel.

Bob quit listening to the livestock reports when the fat cattle market disintegrated, went to McCook or Oberlin every day, and often failed to get home until after midnight. He stopped weighing steers, seldom went near the feed lot, and when I tried to talk to him about shipping he told me, “Shucks, them cattle and hogs don’t belong to me no more. If the big shots up to the bank want ’em, they can come and get ’em.”

Two of the bankers came on December sixteenth—my twenty-second birthday—when prime steers at Kansas City had dropped to $10.50 and bacon hogs to $9.10. What brought them was Bob’s having overdrawn his bank account by more than a hundred dollars. He wasn’t at home, and when I told the bankers that I didn’t know where he was, one of them became as pompous as a turkey gobbler in April. He strutted to the feed lot, looked over the gate, and told me roughly, “Order cars and ship this stuff before the price goes any lower! We’ve taken all the loss we aim to on it.”

Ever since the noon broadcast I’d considered shipping on Saturday, but I’ve never liked being roughly ordered around, so decided not to do it. I waited for the man to finish, then said, “The notes and mortgages on this stock aren’t due until January fourth, and I don’t believe you hold them, do you? Didn’t Mr. Kennedy discount them to a Kansas City cattle loan company?”

His face turned almost purple and he bellowed, “That don’t make any difference. We’re guarantors on the loans, and we’re not going to risk any further loss. Ship this stock Saturday!”

“I can’t talk for Mr. Wilson,” I told him, “but if you want my half shipped this Saturday I’d suggest you get a court order.”

The man wasn’t too careful of his language when he told me how sure I might be that he’d get a court order, and he drove out of the dooryard so fast that the spinning wheels burned rubber off his tires.

That evening Bob came home while I was feeding, so I called him out to the lot and told him about his overdraft and the bankers’ demand that we ship our stock on the coming Saturday. “Them guys don’t scare me none,” he blustered. “Any time they want this stock they can send the sheriff after it. They can’t take no more away from me than what they’ve got a mortgage on.”

“Oh, yes, they can,” I told him. “With those bad checks they can easily get an attachment on your half of the corn crop, and you know there’s a bad-check law in this state. It might be you they’ll send the sheriff after.”

He blustered a bit more, but for the first time there was a sound of worry in his voice, and he went to the house muttering to himself. All through supper he was irritable as a dog with canker in its ears, went to bed while I was milking, and drove away toward McCook soon after I went out to feed the stock next morning. I was working on a radio in mid-forenoon when I heard Bob’s contagious laugh and the sound of unfamiliar men’s voices. I stepped to the bunkhouse window as Bob and two strangers came out of the stockyard, climbed into a new Buick touring car, and drove away. About an hour later Bob came back in the old Buick, pulled to a stop in front of the bunkhouse, and sang out jovially, “Let the daggoned bankers try stealin’ that corn now and see how far they get.”

I opened the door and asked, “What did you do, trade your half of it for that 1921 Buick?”

He lowered his voice and said, “I ain’t that big of a fool. I put enough cash in the bank to make them checks good, but that’s all they’re going to get their fingers on. Sure, I made a deal for a new Buick, but I only paid a hundred bucks down. That way the dealer’ll keep the ownership papers, and these smart guys up to the bank can’t steal it away from me. Don’t say nothing to Marguerite about it. I aim to save it for a Christmas surprise—or maybe New Year’s. It’ll take a week to get the model I dealt for out here from Omaha.”

With money in his pocket, a new Buick on order, and the new bankers outwitted, Bob was fairly prancing. At every chance he flashed a roll of bills that would have choked a bull, and Marguerite must have believed he’d struck it rich. They made four shopping trips to McCook, each time coming home with armloads of packages.

The Thursday before Christmas, Bones phoned and asked me to come to his house. When I got there he led me into the parlor and told me, “I hope you understand that I don’t have the say about what goes on at the bank any more—that is, no more say than one vote gives me, and that’s precious little.”

“I understand,” I said. “Are they after my hide?”

“I wouldn’t exactly say that,” he told me, “but you got their dander up when you told them to get a court order. You know, of course, that mortgaged stock can’t be moved across a state line without authorization from the mortgage holder. Well, they’ve taken up you boys’ notes from the loan company, aiming to force you into shipping your stock in the bank’s name by refusing authorization for it to cross a state line otherwise. If you ship that way, the entire proceeds will have to be paid to the bank, and I have a notion that they plan to impound every dollar of it, claiming that you and Bob are in partnership. They know different, but you’d have to sue to get your money, so the burden of proof would be on you.”

“Is there any way to avoid it?” I asked.

“That’s what I called you up here for,” he told me. “If you were refused shipping authorization on your half of the stock—subject to mortgage, of course—you’d have a legal damage claim. It would include any loss sustained because of market decline, feed, and care of the stock from the time of refusal until ultimate sale. The bank’s only defense would be to prove partnership, and the burden of proof would be on them. They know it, and I don’t believe you’ll have much trouble in getting an authorization when they find out that you know it.”

“Is there any legal reason to keep Bob and me from dividing our stock now?” I asked.

“Of course not,” he said. “You can divide it any time. That’s part of the agreement under which the loans were made.”

“And could Bob turn his half over to the bank before the mortgage is due, whether or not the new men agree to it?”

“If he stopped feeding the stock they’d have to take it. What else could they do to save their situation?”

After thanking Bones I drove around the back way and pulled up in front of the bank as though I’d just come from home. When I went in the man who had ordered me to ship the stock was at Bones’s old desk, and there were only he and the cashier in the bank. I stepped to the rail and said pleasantly, “Good morning. I plan to ship my stock on Christmas Day, so dropped in for an authorization, subject to the amount of my mortgage.”