"I laid it to sheer bad luck." The older man snorted.
"Bad luck! You've been hoodooed! After that, you went off by your lonesome and tried cattle.

Your windmills broke down; your cattle was stole plumb opprobrious--Mexicans blamed, of course.

And the very first winter the sheep drifted in on you--where no sheep had never blatted before--and eat you out of house and home." "I sold out in the spring," reflected Stanley.

"I ran two hundred head of stock up to one hundred and twelve in six months.

Go on! Your story interests me, strangely.