The Bear Wheat At Sixty-two

: A Deal In Wheat And Other Stories

As Sam Lewiston backed the horse into the shafts of his backboard and

began hitching the tugs to the whiffletree, his wife came out from the

kitchen door of the house and drew near, and stood for some time at the

horse's head, her arms folded and her apron rolled around them. For a

long moment neither spoke. They had talked over the situation so long

and so comprehensively the night before that there seemed to be nothing

> more to say.



The time was late in the summer, the place a ranch in southwestern

Kansas, and Lewiston and his wife were two of a vast population of

farmers, wheat growers, who at that moment were passing through a

crisis--a crisis that at any moment might culminate in tragedy. Wheat

was down to sixty-six.



At length Emma Lewiston spoke.



"Well," she hazarded, looking vaguely out across the ranch toward the

horizon, leagues distant; "well, Sam, there's always that offer of

brother Joe's. We can quit--and go to Chicago--if the worst comes."



"And give up!" exclaimed Lewiston, running the lines through the torets.

"Leave the ranch! Give up! After all these years!"



His wife made no reply for the moment. Lewiston climbed into the

buckboard and gathered up the lines. "Well, here goes for the last try,

Emmie," he said. "Good-by, girl. Maybe things will look better in town

to-day."



"Maybe," she said gravely. She kissed her husband good-by and stood for

some time looking after the buckboard traveling toward the town in a

moving pillar of dust.



"I don't know," she murmured at length; "I don't know just how we're

going to make out."



When he reached town, Lewiston tied the horse to the iron railing in

front of the Odd Fellows' Hall, the ground floor of which was occupied

by the post-office, and went across the street and up the stairway of a

building of brick and granite--quite the most pretentious structure of

the town--and knocked at a door upon the first landing. The door was

furnished with a pane of frosted glass, on which, in gold letters, was

inscribed, "Bridges & Co., Grain Dealers."



Bridges himself, a middle-aged man who wore a velvet skull-cap and who

was smoking a Pittsburg stogie, met the farmer at the counter and the

two exchanged perfunctory greetings.



"Well," said Lewiston, tentatively, after awhile.



"Well, Lewiston," said the other, "I can't take that wheat of yours at

any better than sixty-two."



"Sixty-two."



"It's the Chicago price that does it, Lewiston. Truslow is bearing the

stuff for all he's worth. It's Truslow and the bear clique that stick

the knife into us. The price broke again this morning. We've just got a

wire."



"Good heavens," murmured Lewiston, looking vaguely from side to side.

"That--that ruins me. I can't carry my grain any longer--what with

storage charges and--and--Bridges, I don't see just how I'm going to

make out. Sixty-two cents a bushel! Why, man, what with this and with

that it's cost me nearly a dollar a bushel to raise that wheat, and now

Truslow--"



He turned away abruptly with a quick gesture of infinite discouragement.



He went down the stairs, and making his way to where his buckboard was

hitched, got in, and, with eyes vacant, the reins slipping and sliding

in his limp, half-open hands, drove slowly back to the ranch. His wife

had seen him coming, and met him as he drew up before the barn.



"Well?" she demanded.



"Emmie," he said as he got out of the buckboard, laying his arm across

her shoulder, "Emmie, I guess we'll take up with Joe's offer. We'll go

to Chicago. We're cleaned out!"



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