The Cossack Cowboy. Lester S. Taube

silence in the room could be cut with a blunt knife. Finally Paul leaned back in his chair and lifted his booted feet onto the table,

      “How much are the two farms worth?” he asked.

      Mr. Blatherbell swallowed. “Ten thousand pounds for the two - at the most.”

      Paul chuckled. “Well, that will at least take care of the Madrid, Riviera and Baden Baden venture.”

      “But, Your Grace,” blurted out Mr. Blatherbell. “How can you sit there so calmly after losing over five million pounds?”

      “That’s easy,” said Paul. I never had them.” He laughed aloud. “What do you think of that old bastard? Sinking the knife to the hilt even from his grave.” His eyes followed the line of portraits of previous Dukes extending the length of one wall and stopped on the last one - a painting of his uncle. “But, by the Lord,” lie mused softly, “I bet you’re whirling in your coffin to think that my picture will be hanging next to yours.”

      Paul and the three solicitors ate supper in the dining room, waited on by the half-naked servants of the house. It was a cheerless meal, even though bottle after bottle of wine was consumed. Paul finally pushed his plate away and lit a cigar.

      “What about your commission?” he asked Mr. Blatherbell.

      “There will be very little,” said Mr. Blatherbell sadly. “Our agreement concerned only the final will or the administering of the property if he died intestate. The Crown owes us nothing.”

      “We’ll share the money from the sale of the farms,” said Paul.

      “Thank you, Your Grace, we are grateful. It will help to defray our expenses.”

      Paul sat up in his chair. “Let’s search the castle. Maybe the old bastard had bought something else. After all, he took in eight hundred thousand pounds during the past two years, and, knowing him, he wouldn’t have spent much of it. Where should we start?”

      “I would suggest the library,” said Mr. Snoddergas. “I know he did most of his work there before he became ill.”

      “Let’s go,” said Paul, rising from his chair. He led them to the library. It was a huge, cold-looking room of stone, one wall literally covered by shelves of books with a captive ladder fixed to a rail at the top to reach the upper tiers. In front of the heavily-draped windows stood a large double-desk containing rows of drawers on each side, its top littered with piles of papers and books tied with pieces of string. It was a rat’s nest. They lighted candles standing on the desk and in wall holders.

      Paul took command. “Mr. Poopendal, you will look in the boxes. Mr. Blatherbell, you will glance through the books. It would be characteristic of my uncle to hide something where no one would think of searching for it. Mr. Snoddergas, you will take the desk drawers. I’ll look over the things on the desk.”

      Each one set to work. Mr. Blatherbell moved the ladder into position and climbed to the top shelf, pulling out books and examining them. Mr. Poopendal cut the string of one box, drew out a handful of papers, and sat on the floor to study them.

      “The drawers are locked,” said Mr. Snoddergas.

      Paul picked up a paper-knife and snapped the lock, then went back to the litter on top of the table.

      The candles had burned nearly halfway down when Paul rose, arched his weary back, and went to the door. He whistled, and instantly the female butler appeared. “Bring some wine,” he told her, pinching her cheek.

      She purred like a kitten. “At once, Your Grace,” she said, tripping over her feet as she hurried away.

      Paul went back into the room. Mr. Blatherbell and Mr. Poopendal were gathered around Mr. Snoddergas, excitedly reading a document he was holding.

      “Look, Your Grace!” shouted Mr. Snoddergas. “Your uncle does own some other property.”

      “What is it?” asked Paul.

      “The deed to a … a ranch, in a place called the Territory of New Mexico.”

      “The Territory of New Mexico? Where the devil is that?”

      “It is in the United States,” said Mr. Blatherbell. “I believe it is in the west, or the southwest, of that country.”

      “But there are only Indians in the west of the United States,” said Mr. Poopendal. “Whatever would prompt His Grace to buy Indian land?”

      “This says it is a ranch,” said Mr. Snoddergas. “That is where they raise cattle over there?”

      “How large is it?” asked Paul.

      Mr. Snoddergas calculated rapidly. “It seems to be about one thousand square miles in area.”

      Paul snorted. “A thousand acres? That’s not worth going all the way there to sell.”

      “Not acres, Your Grace, miles.”

      Paul’s eyes popped open. “Miles?” He snatched the document from Mr. Snoddergas’ hand. “Show me.” Mr. Snoddergas pointed it out. “It can’t be,” said Paul, incredulous. He looked up at the three intense men. “Maybe their miles are smaller than ours, like acres.”

      “No, Your Grace,” said Mr. Blatherbell. “They have the same number of furlongs to the mile as we have - eight.”

      Paul looked closely at the deed again and a smile wreathed his lips. “Who’s for a trip to this Territory of New Mexico?”

      “I am, Your Grace,” spoke up Mr. Snoddergas quickly.

      “And I, Your Grace,” said Mr. Blatherbell.

      Mr. Poopendal sighed. “And I too, Your Grace.”

      CHAPTER V

      Paul leaned back in his train seat and gazed out of the window with amazement at the mile after mile of open country. He actually didn’t know how to identify and catalogue all the incidents that had taken place since the day he and the three solicitors had stepped aboard the ship at Liverpool. Although the voyage was a slight indication of things to come, inasmuch as he had never seen so much water in his life, it was not really the ultimate but merely a prelude to something he still couldn’t quite place his finger on.

      New York had seemed like a scene from one of those crazy novels written by that Frenchman, Jules Verne. Jammed with horse trolleys packed with people, with drays loaded with kegs of beer, and wagons filled with bricks, and carts piled high with vegetables, and carriages carrying swarms of people, it was a hustle and bustle that assailed the ears. Buildings going up at every turn, higher and higher, so high that the neck ached to look up. Everyone was shouting in Irish and German and Italian and a strange kind of English, glib types were grabbing you by the arm to sell you a bridge or a piece of land or a pheasant’s egg just off the Yankee Clipper from China.

      They had escaped to a medium-priced hotel, but there the activity of buying land, stock and oil rights, cotton and parts of a shipping venture was no less intense than on the streets, only less noisy. Service at the hotel was riotous, with waiters rushing about slamming down plates in front of the customers and whisking them away before they had time to say howdy-do, and everyone eating faster to keep up with the tempo. And the food - it was a nightmare! Steaks two fingers thick that only a man with razor-sharp teeth and an iron jaw could grind small enough to swallow, incompletely boiled potatoes that were served in plates as large as baskets, and enough sharp-tasting cabbage to feed a family, but even more raw than the potatoes.

      The one thing which met with Paul’s complete approval was a short stroll in the Bowery, short because within a whisper of time he had become as drunk as a lord and had been led up to a room where two ladies of the evening taught him a few tricks he had never encountered before, including the imbibing of a liquid which had clubbed him into a slumber so deep that he did not waken until noon