My father has always raised
short-legged, long-horned scrubs, descendants of the old Mexican breeds,
and there is no money in that sort of stock. If I can induce him to turn
the ranch over to me, I'll try to raise sufficient money to buy a couple
of car-loads of pure-bred Hereford bulls and grade up that scrub stock;
in four or five years I'll have steers that will weigh eighteen hundred
to two thousand pounds on the hoof, instead of the little
eight-hundred-pounders that have swindled us for a hundred years."
"How many head of cattle can you run on your ranch?"
"About ten thousand--one to every ten acres. If I could develop water
for irrigation in the San Gregorio valley, I could raise alfalfa and
lot-feed a couple of thousand more."
"What is the ranch worth?"
"About eight per acre is the average price of good cattle-range nowadays.
With plenty of water for irrigation, the valley-land would be worth five
hundred dollars an acre. It's as rich as cream, and will grow
anything--with water."
"Well, I hope your dad takes a back seat and gives you a free hand,
Farrel. I think you'll make good with half a chance."
"I feel that way also," Farrel replied seriously.
"Are you going south to-night?"
"Oh, no. Indeed not! I don't want to go home in the dark, sir." The
captain was puzzled. "Because I love my California, and I haven't seen
her for two years," Farrel replied, to the other's unspoken query.
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