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At last, after we had exhausted all the wiles and arts of persuasion at our command, Ida Mary told him that, come to think of it, she had seen a bunch of cattle drifting in the direction of the Wagor claim. He started out, saying he might stop in if he happened to drift by and it "come handy." Sourdough found the Wagors covered up in bed. They had been in bed two days and three nights.
So we turned the store over to the Wagors', lock, stock and barrel prunes and molasses, barrels of coal-oil and vinegar, padlocks on the doors. They had no money, but Ma wanted it as much as we wanted to be rid of it, so it was a satisfactory deal. They were to pay us on a percentage basis. We still had a claim, a post office and a newspaper to manage, and the Indian trade to handle.
He stopped at the print shop to rest his horse, which was wringing wet with sweat, though the day was piercing cold. He threw the saddle blanket over the horse and came in. We begged him to go and find out whether or not the Wagors were all right. After Ida Mary and I had got straightened out, it occurred to us that they had sent in their order for coal with ours.
We argued and insisted, telling him that he knew better how to break a trail than the tenderfeet around here, that his horse was better trained for it. "This country warn't made for no humans just Indians and rattlesnakes and cowhands is all it was intended for." I agreed with him. I was ready to agree with anything he might say if he would only go to the Wagors' shack.
He had left her a son who had grown to be a stalwart, good-looking young man, who worked with a construction company out in western Nebraska. Learning of the Wagors' misfortune, he came, started another store at Ammons for his mother, and helped her to run it for a while. All around Ammons the fields lay freshly turned, fallowing for next year's crop.
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