Billy said nothing. With steady eyes he was staring into the
fire, and she knew he was turning something over in his mind.
"What is it," she asked, when she saw he had reached a
conclusion, at the same time resting her hand on the back of his.
"Just been framin' up that ranch of ourn," he answered. "It's all
well enough, these dinky farmlets. They'll do for foreigners. But
we Americans just gotta have room. I want to be able to look at a
hilltop an' know it's my land, and know it's my land down the
other side an' up the next hilltop, an' know that over beyond
that, down alongside some creek, my mares are most likely
grazin', an' their little colts grazin' with 'em or kickin' up
their heels. You know, there's money in raisin'
horses--especially the big workhorses that run to eighteen
hundred an' two thousand pounds. They're payin' for 'em, in the
cities, every day in the year, seven an' eight hundred a pair,
matched geldings, four years old. Good pasture an' plenty of it,
in this kind of a climate, is all they need, along with some sort
of shelter an' a little hay in long spells of bad weather. I
never thought of it before, but let me tell you that this ranch
proposition is beginnin' to look good to ME."
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