Elias Vance was a rancher, a down-to-earth man accustomed to dealing with the weather, cattle, and honest or cunning cattle dealers.
At this moment, he stood in front of the corrals on his ranch, looking at the hundred fat, strong beef cattle, already branded with the delivery mark, his brow tightly furrowed.
"Mr. Thompson," he said to the man beside him, who looked out of place in his fashionable Chicago suit, his voice as rough as the rocks on the prairie, "the cattle are all here. According to the contract we signed a week ago, today is your payment day. Where is my money?"
Thompson, the agent who called himself the "Western Livestock Cooperative," put on a professional smile, but his eyes were a bit shifty.
