“Wait. You mean if I brought Black Angus into Texas, I would be first?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
Big Ben laughed, then slapped his hand on his knee. “That would put a sock in Walter Hannah’s mouth, once and for all, wouldn’t it?” he said. “Tell me, Will, what are Black Angus going for right now?”
Hurley looked at a piece of paper on his desk until he found the figure he was after.
“As of ten o’clock this morning, they were sixteen dollars and thirty cents a head.”
“That’s even higher than Herefords,” Big Ben said. “Now, the next question, is where can I find some to buy?”
“Well, they are my competition,” Hurley said. “But setting that aside, my best guess would be the Stock Exchange in Kansas City.”
“You wouldn’t feel like I’m going behind your back by going there?” Big Ben asked.
“Not if you do business with me once you get your cows.”
Big Ben smiled and stuck out his hand. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Will,” he said. “Of course I will be doing business with you.”
The building was divided into two parts. On one side there was an area that everyone referred to as “the bullpen.” It was so called because here, there were six desks crowded rather close together. Behind the desks toiled the inventory clerks, men who came to work and buried their head in endless rows of numbers.
A long counter separated the “bullpen” from the much larger and better decorated director’s room where Jay Montgomery had his desk. On the back wall was a large blackboard upon which figures were written, the figures representing the latest quotes from the cattle market. In the corner was a ticker-tape machine, and at the moment one of the clerks was standing by it, holding the tape in his two hands, reading it as it came from the machine. As soon as he got all the numbers, he would transfer them to the blackboard.
Big Ben, who had left Fort Worth the day before, walked up to the low railing and stood there for a moment, waiting for someone to notice him. One of the clerks who had just finished putting numbers on the blackboard turned, and seeing Big Ben, flinched in surprise. He had never seen a man quite that big.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?”
“My name is Benjamin Conyers. I would like to speak with Mr. Jay Montgomery.”
“Just a moment, sir,” the clerk said as he hurried out of the bullpen and into an office at the back. A moment later a tall, silver-haired, dignified-looking man came out of the office with the clerk. Smiling, he approached Big Ben with his hand extended.
“Mr. Conyers,” he said. “It is so nice to actually meet you, after doing business all these years. Have you come to arrange a cattle sale?”
“No, sir. A cattle buy,” Big Ben said.
“A cattle buy? Well, I’m sure we can accommodate you there. What kind of cattle do you want to buy, and how many?”
“I want to buy twenty-five hundred head of Black Angus,” Big Ben said.
Montgomery blinked. “Twenty-five hundred head of Angus? That’s—uh—quite an order,” he said.
“Yes, sir, I suppose it is,” Big Ben said. “Can you fill it?”
Montgomery shook his head. “No, sir, I’m afraid I can’t. There aren’t so many Black Angus in the country for us to have such a large reserve.”
“Damn,” Big Ben said.
“I understand what you are trying to do, Mr. Conyers,” Montgomery said. “All the cattlemen are getting rid of Longhorn now. They simply are no longer profitable. But everyone is going into Herefords, and if you would be interested in that, then we would be able to help you.”
“I may have to do that,” Big Ben said. “But I don’t mind telling you that I was set upon buying Black Angus. How many other places are there like yours? What I mean is, what would be the chances of putting together a herd as large as the one I need?”
“Oh, Mr. Conyers, I don’t know,” Montgomery said. “I suppose I could check with all the other cattle exchanges in the country, and among those who have any Angus at all, put together a herd for you. But you would have to gather them from all over, and by the time you did that, counting transportation costs and everything, they are likely to cost you thirty dollars a head. That would make them completely cost-prohibitive.”
Big Ben breathed out a sigh of disappointment.
“Yes,” he said. “I see what you mean.”
“Unless ... ,” Montgomery said, brightening, and holding up one finger.
“Unless what?”
“Unless you would be willing to buy them all from a private rancher.”
“You know a rancher who has enough Black Angus to be able to sell me two thousand, five hundred head?”
“Yes, I think I do,” Montgomery said. “His name is Duff MacCallister, and he lives in Chugwater, Wyoming.”
Montgomery walked over to the desk of one of the many clerks and, making a motion for paper and a pen, started writing.
“Here is his name and how to get in touch with him,” Montgomery said. “When you write to him, you can mention my name. It might do you some good. We have done business together quite frequently over the last three years.”
“Thank you,” Big Ben said. “By the way, what is the market price for Angus, today?”
“Seventeen dollars,” Montgomery said without having to check. He smiled. “I just got a quote this morning.”
“That’s up from the last time I checked,” Big Ben said.
“Yes, Black Angus are the most active right now.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind when I make my buy,” Big Ben said.
Duff Tavish MacCallister was standing on the front porch of his ranch house at Sky Meadow drinking coffee and watching the light show that the setting sun played upon the long, purple range of mountains called Laramie Ridge. His ranch, Sky Meadow, one of the most productive ranches in all of Wyoming. It was also the location of a producing gold mine. The mine did not produce enough gold to merit full-time operation, but it did produce enough to enable him to build Sky Meadow, and to populate it with Black Angus cattle.
Duff had raised Black Angus back in Scotland; he was well familiar with the breed, and knew of its superiority to Longhorn and even Hereford cattle. He now had the largest Angus herd in the West, and one of the largest herds in the nation.
Earlier in the day, Elmer Gleason, Duff’s ranch foreman, had gone into Chugwater. Duff drank his coffee and watched as his foreman rode through the front gate, about fifty yards down the road from the house itself. Elmer was wiry and raw-boned. He had a full head of white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Duff didn’t know exactly how old Elmer was, and Elmer never said. But he knew some of Elmer’s past from riding with Quantrill, and later Jesse James, to being a seaman on China Clipper. He knew also that he had never known a man more loyal than Elmer Gleason.
“You got some mail,” Elmer said as he dismounted onto the front stoop. He handed the letter to Duff. “But I’d be careful reading that letter if I was you,” Gleason said.
“Why is that?”
“Well, sir, because it’s postmarked from Texas, and you bein’ from Scotland ’n all, like as not you don’t know about them Texans. But they ain’t none of ’em to be trusted.”
“Sure ’n back in Scotland they say that about the Highlanders,” Duff said, chuckling as he opened the letter. “Well now, ’tis a fancy letter on monogrammed stationery it is.”
