Part 22 (1/2)
With the exception of Hiram Hooker, Jo's skinners shouted with laughter. Jo and Hiram merely exchanged bewildered looks.
”We'll go over now, Wild Cat,” she said. ”There's lots of time to unload. We can't make it out of here to-day, anyway.”
Side by side they walked toward the lonesome little tent with the big sign on a pole in front of it--a mere atom of white in the vast desert.
Orr Tweet sat at an oaken desk in one corner of the tent. In another corner was his bunk, a new suit case, and a new trunk, both in keeping with Tweet's expensive outdoor clothes. There were several chairs.
Tweet arose briskly and held one for the girl with all the ceremony of a head waiter in a restaurant of repute.
”Jo,” he began, ”I hope you'll pardon the familiarity; there is a matter of sixteen or seventeen dollars due you, I believe, for my transportation from Frisco to Palada. And, Hiram, I believe I owe you somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty dollars--the exact amount escapes me temporarily. Now, both of you, the question is this: Do you prefer cash, or stock in the Paloma Rancho Investment Company, or land?
The choice is yours.”
”Tweet,” ordered Hiram, ”get down off your high horse and talk sense.
What on earth is all this, anyway?”
Tweet laughed and winked and became himself again.
”Hiram, old boy,” he confided, ”I'm on the road to fortune. This is gonta be the biggest deal I ever tried to swing. And, by golly! I'm the little boy that c'n swing 'er!”
”Tell us about it,” pleaded Jerkline Jo.
”Well, sir, Jo, I owe everything to you, and I'll prove I'm not the man to be slow in showin' my grat.i.tude. I'm a go-getter, and no mistake.
I couldn't make you folks believe it, so I had to go to work and show you. But I bear you no ill will. You didn't know anything about me.
”Well, dear little playmates, here's the dope:
”That night watchman over there at Julia told me who owned all the land about here, and said they were in tight financial circ.u.mstances--badly in need o' ready money. They're big land owners--land poor. I drank that all down, and she listened good to me. For the rest, I banked on the accurate judgment of a party known as Jerkline Jo. I says to myself: 'Jo's been on the grade all her life and savvies conditions.
If she says Ragtown is goin' to be located at the b.u.t.tes, that part o'
the country's the part to get toehold on. Anyway, Playmate,' I says, 'we'll take a chance on Jerkline Jo.' And that's what me and Playmate did.
”I hunted up the owners o' the land when I gets to Los Angeles, and makes 'em an offer on twelve thousan' acres--comprisin' the entire tract known as Paloma Rancho, an ancient Spanish grant. Good for nothin', I'd been told, but to run cows on in winter, when the filaree and bunch gra.s.s are green. Just the same, there are other parts o'
this ole desert that are comin' out with a bang here lately. Lookit up in Lucerne Valley and around Victorville! Good pear land, once she's cleared o' the desert growth and a little humus-bearin' fertilizer added to the soil. Produces good alfalfa, too. Anyway, I says I'll take a chance, so I made 'em an offer.
”They pretended like they thought the railroad was gonta do 'em a lot o' good in a few years; that they didn't care whether they disposed o'
the property or not. But that bunk's old stuff to me, so I shut 'em up and made 'em talk turkey. I made 'em an offer o' ten dollars an acre for Paloma Rancho, payment to be made in quarterly installments of six thousan' dollars, each, contract to run for five years, with interest at seven per cent on deferred payments--first payment o' six thousan'
dollars to be made in advance.
”They refused, and I picked up my hat and started out. They called me back, and for ten minutes we puttered around between ten dollars an acre and fifteen, and at last they fell into my arms. We had the papers drawn up, and I slips 'em a certified check for six thousan'
buckerinos.”
”You gave them six thousand dollars!” cried Hiram.
”Sure,” Tweet replied easily. ”I'd already wired to Frisco and disposed o' my ditch-digger holdin's for over eight thousan'; I got over a thousan' left, five hundred paid on an automobile that's now asleep back o' this office, and a toehold on Paloma Rancho, twelve thousan' acres o' perfectly beautiful sand.
”And now that you folks have dumped a cargo o' freight here marked D., S. & T., No. 1, I know we win. We're goin' to make this one o' the liveliest propositions in the West. Ragtown will move down here as soon as the big outfit lands at the b.u.t.tes. City lots in Ragtown--which later probably will be known as Tweet--will be worth from a hundred dollars to two hundred and fifty, accordin' to location.
My engineers will be here soon, and we'll lay off the town site. I've made application for a post office, and by the time the papers come from the department there'll be plenty o' signers here. Concessions will be granted at reasonable figures. Farming lands will be sold at from fifty dollars an acre up to a hundred and fifty, accordin' to location, depth to water, et cetera. This will include stock in the company's water right. Water will be developed up in the mountains, on a site that goes with the ranch, at an approximate expense of one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. I am organizing my water company now, and will let all old friends in on the ground floor, of course. Water at b.u.t.te Springs, by the way, Ragtown's present supply, will cost twenty-five cents a head for stock, and five cents a drink for human beings who are recognized citizens of Ragtown, the Tweet-to-be. Old friends, however, are hereby extended the privilege of watering free of charge while life shall last.
”So folks, we're off in a bunch. Keep your eye on Ragtown, metropolis of the Homesteader's Promised Land of Milk and Honey.”