“That’s the ticket,” said the trail boss.  “I’m dead tired of riding horses and eating at a wagon.  Give me the plush cushions and let me put my little feet under a table once more.”

The heavy cattle train was promised a special schedule.  The outfits received their orders, and at the usual hour in the morning, the shipment started to market.  Weathered brown as a saddle, Dell was walking on clouds, lending a hand to the shipper in charge, riding on the engine, or hungering for the rare stories with which the trail foreman regaled the train crew.  The day passed like a brief hour, the train threading its way past corn fields, country homes, and scorning to halt at the many straggling villages that dotted the route.

It was a red-letter day in the affairs of Wells Brothers.  The present, their fifth shipment of the year, a total of over nineteen hundred beeves, was en route to market.  Another day, and their operations in cattle, from a humble beginning to the present hour, could be condensed into a simple statement.  The brothers could barely wait the intervening hours, and when the train reached the market and they had retired for the night, speculation ran rife in planning the future.  And amid all their dreams and air castles, in the shadowy background stood two simple men whose names were never mentioned except in terms of loving endearment.

Among their many friends, Quince Forrest was Dell’s hero.  “They’re all good fellows,” he admitted, “but Mr. Quince is a prince.  He gave us our start in cattle.  Our debt to him—­well, we can never pay it.  And he never owned a hoof himself.”

“We owe Mr. Paul just as much,” protested Joel.  “He showed us our chance.  When pa died, the settlers on the Solomon talked of making bound boys of us.  Mr. Paul was the one who saw us as we are to-day.”

“I wish mother could have lived to see us now—­shipping beeves by the train-load—­and buying cattle by the thousand.”

An eager market absorbed the beeves, and before noon they had crossed the scale.  A conference, jubilant in its nature, took place during the afternoon, in the inner office of the commission firm.  The execution of a new contract was a mere detail; but when the chief bookkeeper handed in a statement covering the shipments of this and the previous year, a lull in the gayety was followed by a moment of intense interest.  The account showed a balance of sixty-odd thousand dollars in favor of Wells Brothers!

“Give them a letter of credit for their balance,” said Mr. Stoddard, amid the general rejoicing.  “And get us some passes; we’re all going out to Trail City to-night.  There’s a few bargains on that market, and the boys want to stock their range fully.”

“Yours obediently,” said the old factor, beaming on his patrons.  “And if the boys have any occasion to use any further funds, don’t hesitate to draw on us.  The manner in which they have protected their credit entitles them to our confidence.  Our customers come first.  Their prosperity is our best asset.  A great future lies before you boys, and we want a chance to help you reach it.  Keep in touch with us; we may hear of something to your advantage.”