Ezra was to meet separately with each of the four banks that held notes on the 8T8 ranch to negotiate extensions on the loans. If they needed a reason, Eli’s accident would do. Ezra could remind them all that they had made a good deal of money dealing with Eli Paint in the past and would again, but not if they chose to squeeze him now. When he was up and around, he would find ways to see to it that the banks were paid, even if it meant selling part of the ranch. In the meantime, they could show a little patience.

“If they try to put the hammerlock on you, don’t give ’em an inch. Bankers are like buzzards. If they think a critter is crippled and can’t defend himself, they’ll swoop down and start pluckin his guts while he’s still alive. Snarl at ’em a little bit and they’ll back off. Remember how we dealt with Bly Olp back in Brown County? We put the fear of God in that sonofabitch. Do the same with these fellas, but only if you have to. Go in easy, but if they start to push, you push back twice as hard. Tell them right off that there are four banks involved and the other three have already agreed to give us until fall to work things out. Bankers are like sheep following a goat—they don’t think for themselves, they just do what the other fella does. Makes ’em feel like they’re all bein smart together.”

Ezra wanted to offer more help. “If they’re squeezin too hard, we can always sell some of the Appaloosas. I got a fella down in Argentina will pay good money for a studhorse and five or six broodmares. Would be enough to buy you some time.”

“I can’t let you do that, Ez. That Appaloosa operation is yours. It has nothing to do with the rest of the ranch. That’s why I signed those five thousand acres over to you. There aint no way the sonsofbitches can touch it.”

All his life, Eli had been too busy for hobbies. Too busy to read, too busy to play checkers or poker, too busy to go to the picture show. Now he had time on his hands and nothing to do. Juanita tried to read to him from the books she liked, but his mind would drift. She rummaged around the hospital and found a stack of twenty-cent Best Detective magazines from 1930. She thought he would scoff at made-up stories, but he devoured them and sent her out in search of more. She found more detective magazines and two beat-up novels by a writer named Dashiell Hammett, The Glass Key and The Maltese Falcon. Eli read slowly, but within a week, he had finished both.