knitting and leave us alone.”
Brady was taken aback. It wasn’t the answer he had expected. He’d thought it might be something he could fix. Like money or ... something. But this, well, this was personal. “Oh,” he said lamely. “Keep at it, then. It’ll all work out.”
“Keep at it.” Hank shot him a look of disgust. “Hell, why didn’t I think of that?” Leaning back in his chair, he propped his heels on a clean corner of his desk. “You go through the mail?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Like we thought, Grant signed the Coinage Bill a month ago. All gold, no silver. As of February twelfth, our silver mines are virtually worthless.”
“Hell.”
“I know. It’s got the banks scared too. They’re shutting down loan money, which means farmers and cattlemen who operate on credit will go down first.”
“Not us.”
“Not us. Not yet anyway. We still have the Army beef contract.”
They drank in silence for a time. Brady comforted himself with the fact that the mines were about played out anyway, although they still produced enough to keep the workers paid and the machinery running. Now he’d have to shut them both down and let the miners go. Damn that Grant .
“Anything new on the horse flu?” Hank asked.
Brady snorted. “They’re calling it ‘The Great Epizootic.’ Sounds like a damn carnival act.” Leaning forward, he picked up the decanter, topped off his glass, and returned the decanter to the desk.
“They say it started in Toronto,” he went on after he took a sip. “And from there headed south, then west. A real mess. Even the Army is on foot. Without horses, Indians don’t get fought, locomotives don’t get coal, ships don’t get unloaded, and fire wagons don’t get pulled. Boston near burned to the ground.”
“What about the horses?”
As usual, Hank was more worried about the animals than the humans. Not that Brady blamed him. With the mines no longer supplying income and the cattle market in jeopardy, the ranch’s future might rest solely on their slow-growing but highly regarded breeding program of mustang-and-Thoroughbred-crossbred horses. Which was why RosaRoja was under quarantine; they could ill afford an outbreak of horse flu, especially now.
“It’s bad,” Brady said. “At least twenty-five percent dead overall. Close to eighty percent in some places.”
“Hell.”
“I know. But the Chronicle said it had spread as far west as Prescott as of last week, so maybe it’s passed us by. We’ll give it another week then see.”
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windowpanes and moaning through the gap under the porch door like some poor lost soul begging to come in.
Hank took a deep swallow then sucked air against his teeth. “And Blake?”
Brady didn’t want to think about Franklin Blake right then. Or how the bastard had convinced the bank to sell him the loan papers they’d been holding on the smelter Brady and several other mine owners had built as a cooperative enterprise.
Blake had been after RosaRoja’s highly profitable mines for a while now. They had never considered selling to him, mainly because they didn’t need the money, but also because Blake had a reputation for dodgy deals. But now Brady wished they had sold, especially since the mines were now damn near worthless. He had to wonder if Blake would try to come after the ranch next.
“How you figure to pay him?” Hank asked.
“I’m thinking on it.”
“Better think fast. He’ll be calling in the note soon.”
“I know.”
Silence again. The fire had died down to embers, but neither of them bothered to add wood. The moon started a slow slide down the western sky, and coyotes added their voices to the wind serenade.
“I guess we could use Jack’s share of the mine profits,” Brady said after a while.
“We could,” his brother allowed. “If it was ours to use.”
“Don’t go moral on me.”
Hank looked at him over the rim of his glass.
“It’s not
Brady was taken aback. It wasn’t the answer he had expected. He’d thought it might be something he could fix. Like money or ... something. But this, well, this was personal. “Oh,” he said lamely. “Keep at it, then. It’ll all work out.”
“Keep at it.” Hank shot him a look of disgust. “Hell, why didn’t I think of that?” Leaning back in his chair, he propped his heels on a clean corner of his desk. “You go through the mail?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Like we thought, Grant signed the Coinage Bill a month ago. All gold, no silver. As of February twelfth, our silver mines are virtually worthless.”
“Hell.”
“I know. It’s got the banks scared too. They’re shutting down loan money, which means farmers and cattlemen who operate on credit will go down first.”
“Not us.”
“Not us. Not yet anyway. We still have the Army beef contract.”
They drank in silence for a time. Brady comforted himself with the fact that the mines were about played out anyway, although they still produced enough to keep the workers paid and the machinery running. Now he’d have to shut them both down and let the miners go. Damn that Grant .
“Anything new on the horse flu?” Hank asked.
Brady snorted. “They’re calling it ‘The Great Epizootic.’ Sounds like a damn carnival act.” Leaning forward, he picked up the decanter, topped off his glass, and returned the decanter to the desk.
“They say it started in Toronto,” he went on after he took a sip. “And from there headed south, then west. A real mess. Even the Army is on foot. Without horses, Indians don’t get fought, locomotives don’t get coal, ships don’t get unloaded, and fire wagons don’t get pulled. Boston near burned to the ground.”
“What about the horses?”
As usual, Hank was more worried about the animals than the humans. Not that Brady blamed him. With the mines no longer supplying income and the cattle market in jeopardy, the ranch’s future might rest solely on their slow-growing but highly regarded breeding program of mustang-and-Thoroughbred-crossbred horses. Which was why RosaRoja was under quarantine; they could ill afford an outbreak of horse flu, especially now.
“It’s bad,” Brady said. “At least twenty-five percent dead overall. Close to eighty percent in some places.”
“Hell.”
“I know. But the Chronicle said it had spread as far west as Prescott as of last week, so maybe it’s passed us by. We’ll give it another week then see.”
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windowpanes and moaning through the gap under the porch door like some poor lost soul begging to come in.
Hank took a deep swallow then sucked air against his teeth. “And Blake?”
Brady didn’t want to think about Franklin Blake right then. Or how the bastard had convinced the bank to sell him the loan papers they’d been holding on the smelter Brady and several other mine owners had built as a cooperative enterprise.
Blake had been after RosaRoja’s highly profitable mines for a while now. They had never considered selling to him, mainly because they didn’t need the money, but also because Blake had a reputation for dodgy deals. But now Brady wished they had sold, especially since the mines were now damn near worthless. He had to wonder if Blake would try to come after the ranch next.
“How you figure to pay him?” Hank asked.
“I’m thinking on it.”
“Better think fast. He’ll be calling in the note soon.”
“I know.”
Silence again. The fire had died down to embers, but neither of them bothered to add wood. The moon started a slow slide down the western sky, and coyotes added their voices to the wind serenade.
“I guess we could use Jack’s share of the mine profits,” Brady said after a while.
“We could,” his brother allowed. “If it was ours to use.”
“Don’t go moral on me.”
Hank looked at him over the rim of his glass.
“It’s not
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