Jessy grinned. “One of these times you’re going to burn your nose.”
“There’s that problem, too,” he agreed and puffed experimentally then pulled in a deep drag. “Ty looked me up the other day. Did he tell you?”
“He mentioned it.”
“Did he pass on what I told him?”
“About what?”
“About all the money the Triple C is leaving on the table when you sell registered stock.” Range-wise to the fire hazards of such dry conditions, he kept a hand cupped around the cigarette and deposited its ash in his shirt pocket.
Ty hadn’t said anything at all about that. But knowing how little stock Ty put in anything Ballard said, Jessy wasn’t surprised by the omission. Just the same, she kept her gaze fixed on the headgate and remained silent, fully aware that Ballard would fill the void.
He did. “Whenever the Triple C has registered cattle to sell, they get sold through livestock auctions that are restricted to registered animals. Granted they bring high dollar, for the most part. But they could bring more. You see,” he went on, warming to his subject, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned knocking around the country during the winter months, it’s that people like to brag about the things they own, especially that breed of gentlemen ranchers with more money than brains—at least when it comes to ranching. And as much as one of these guys likes to brag about what a fine bull or pen of cows he just bought, he likes to brag even more about who he bought them from. It’s like these collectors who go in debt over their heads just so they can buy a car once owned by Elvis.”
“Our cattle are always sold as Triple C–bred stock at the auctions,” Jessy reminded him.
“The buyers are told that,” Ballard agreed. “But being told something doesn’t make nearly the impression as buying that stock at a production sale held right here on the Triple C.”
Stunned by his suggestion, Jessy turned in her saddle to stare at him. “You’re not serious?”
“I’m dead serious.” He repeatedly licked his fingers to pinch out the fire in his cigarette before tucking the crumbling butt into his jean pocket. “You’d have to do a lot of advertising and make a big event out of it, but if you did, these bigwigs would fly in from all parts of the country with their checkbooks open.”
“You’re crazy, Ballard.” Now she understood why Ty hadn’t mentioned his wild scheme to her.
“Crazy smart,” he replied with unshaken confidence.
She made a snorting sound of disagreement and turned her head away, facing the front again.
For a long run of seconds, the silence was thick. “I’m right about this, Jessy,” he stated quietly.
“I’m sure you think you are.”
“You’ve got the same problem Ty has—and nearly every single man, woman, and child on the Triple C.”
“I suppose I might as well ask what that problem is, because I know you’re going to tell me anyway,” she stated, letting her impatience with him show.
“First, answer me one question,” Ballard challenged.
“What’s that?”
“How many times have you been off the Triple C? And I don’t mean going into Blue Moon.”
“I’ve been to Miles City a couple of times,” Jessy replied, feeling oddly defensive.
“If you add them all up, I’ll bet you can count all the trips on one hand.”
Unable to deny it, she went on the offensive. “What’s your point.”
“Simple. In ranching circles, every time the conversation gets around to big ranches in the country, Triple C’s name always comes up. But nobody knows much about it. So any talk is always full of rumors and
speculations.”
“So?” Jessy prompted, not following him.
“It’s created an aura of mystery about the ranch, made the Triple C into kind of a legend. And no one is sure what is myth and what is reality.”
“Why would they even care?”