The Land(108)

“Yes, I recall you,” said J. T. Hollenbeck. “I heard you took my advice about seeing Filmore Granger and you’re working his land now.”

“That’s right. But as you might recall, when you gave me that advice, I was interested in your land at the time.”

“Yes, I recall that too.” His gaze left me and settled on Thunder, tied to one of the horse posts. “That your horse?”

I glanced at the palomino. “Yes, sir, it is.”

“Fine-looking. Mighty fine,” he commented. “If I weren’t moving north, I’d consider trying to buy him from you.” He looked back at me. “So, what can I do for you?”

“Well, Mister Hollenbeck, I still am interested in that land of yours.”

“That a fact?”

“I understand you’re selling some of your land now. If that meadowland and pond about a mile south of here are available for sale, I’d be interested in buying it.”

J. T. Hollenbeck studied me. “Just how many acres are you talking about?”

“That depends on your asking price.”

“Between twelve and fifteen dollars an acre for anybody buying less than a thousand, ten for a thousand or more.”

I shook my head. “That’s a lot of money. Most acreage around here goes for between seven and nine.”

“Well, that’s most acreage. But I’ve got some special land here. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have already sold the most of it and have people waiting to buy the rest. I admit some parts have more value than others and that meadowland is some of the best. It’ll go for fifteen. I figure my price is fair on that. Only reason it’s not already sold is because Charles Jamison reminded me you were interested in buying some of my land. He told me if you don’t buy that piece of land, he will.”

“I understand that you’re a fair man, Mister Hollenbeck, and that this is good land, but still, fifteen dollars an acre to a man who can’t afford to buy a thousand acres is mighty high.”

“You’re saying it’s not fair?”

“I’m not saying that, Mister Hollenbeck. I’m just saying a man who can’t afford a thousand acres can’t afford five dollars more an acre.”

“And what would you think this man could afford?”

“Same price as the man buying a thousand.”

“You say you’re willing to pay me ten an acre?” J. T. Hollenbeck smiled, as if not taking me seriously.

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“So at ten dollars an acre, how many acres would you be wanting?”

I didn’t have to think on that. I already knew. “Four hundred,” I said.

“Four hundred? You’re aiming high.”

I didn’t say anything to that.

“I’ll be wanting cash money,” said J. T. Hollenbeck. “You got cash money for four hundred acres of Hollenbeck land?”

“How soon would it have to be paid?” I asked, warding off the question.

“Soon as we’ve got a contract. I plan to have all this land sold before I leave here come fall.” He looked at me pointedly. “So, you still think you’re interested in Hollenbeck land?”

“I’m interested.”

J. T. Hollenbeck looked again at the palomino, and was for some while silent. “All right then,” he finally said. “But I want you to know I don’t usually go around losing myself money. If you can meet the ten dollar price, those four hundred acres are yours.”

“I can let you know next week.”

“No, you let me know before this week’s out. I’ve got other folks waiting for my land. You come back here by then, we can do business. You don’t, and I get another offer after that, I won’t hold one acre for you.”

“I’ll be back,” I said.

J. T. Hollenbeck gave me another nod, and that was the seal on our agreement.

When I left J. T. Hollenbeck and recrossed the meadow, I lingered awhile. I walked up the slope, knelt beside the rock on which I had rested my head that first night, and I prayed to have this land. When I finished my praying, I sat there on that rock for a long while looking over the land, then I walked down to the pond, gazed up into the trees for a spell longer, then finally headed back to the forty. As I neared the place, a slight man smelling of whisky stepped from the dense woods onto the trail.

It was Digger Wallace.

He stopped and stared up at me with bloodshot eyes. “I ain’t know’d that horse of yours,” he said, “I’d’ve done thought you was a white man comin’. But I been seein’ you ridin’ round on that there horse and folks tell me it’s yours. Seen that boy Mitchell on him once too ridin’ ’cross that field down yonder.” He spat on the ground in front of me and his spittle was the color of stale tobacco. “Horse like that oughtta not be rode by no niggers.” His eyes met mine, then he crossed the trail and slipped back into the woods.