The Forfeit | Page 9

of the notice, which had been
indited in ink, evidently executed with a piece of flat wood. He was
holding up a lantern, and every eye was carefully, and in many
instances laboriously, studying the text inscribed.
It was a notice of reward. A reward of ten thousand dollars for
information leading to the capture of the gang of cattle thieves known
as the "Lightfoot gang." And it was signed by Dug McFarlane on
behalf of the Orrville Rancher's Vigilance Committee.
"Guess Ju knowed after all," somebody observed, in a confidential tone
to his neighbor.
But Ju's ears were as long and sharp as his tongue. He flashed round on
the instant, his lantern lowered from the level of the notice board. There
was a sort of cold triumph in his manner as his eyes fell upon the
speaker.
"Know'd?" he cried sharply. "Ain't 'knowin'' my business? Psha!" His
contempt was withering. Then his manner changed back to the triumph
which the notice had inspired. "Say, it's a great piece of money. It
surely is some bunch. Ten thousand dollars! Gee! His game's up.
Lightfoot's as good as kickin' his heels agin the breezes. He's played his

hand, an'--lost."
And somehow no one seemed inclined to add to his statement. Nor,
which was much more remarkable, contradict it. Now that these men
had seen the notice with their own eyes the force of all Ju had so
recently contended came home to them. There was not one amongst
that little gathering who did not realize the extent of the odds militating
against the rustlers. Ten thousand dollars! There was not a man present
who did not feel the tremendous power of such a reward.
The gathering melted away slowly, and finally Bob Whitstone was left
alone before the gleaming sheet of paper, with Ju standing in his
doorway. The lantern was at his feet upon the sill. His hands were
thrust in the tops of his shabby trousers. He was regarding the
"gentleman" rancher meditatively, and his half burnt cigar glowed
under the deep intake of his powerful lungs.
"It's a dandy bunch, Bob, eh?" he demanded presently, in an ironical
tone. "Guess I'd come nigh sellin' my own father fer--ten thousand
dollars. An' I don't calc'late I'd get nightmare neither." Then he drew a
deep breath which suggested regret. "But--it ain't comin' my way. No.
Not by a sight." Then, after a watchful pause, he continued: "I'm kind o'
figgerin' whose way. Not mine, or--yours. Eh, Bob? We could do with
it. Pity, ain't it?"
Bob turned. His eyes sought the face in the shadow of the doorway.
"I'm no descendant of Judas," he said coldly.
"No. But--Judas didn't sell a gang of murdering cattle rustlers. That
ain't Judas money."
"Maybe. But it's blood money all the same."
"Mighty bad blood that oughter be spilt."
Bob turned away. His gaze wandered out westward. Then his eyes
came slowly back to the man in the door-way.

"You thought I was talking hot air just now--about a man's price. You
didn't like it. Well, when I find myself with a price I hope I shan't live
to be paid it. That's all."
The man in the doorway shook his head. Then he spoke slowly,
deliberately. And somehow much of the sharpness had gone out of his
tone, and the hard glitter of his steely eyes had somehow become less
pronounced.
"Oh, I guess I got your meanin' right, fer all yer thousand dollar
langwidge. Sure, I took you right away. But--it don't signify a cuss
anyways. Guess you was born a gentleman, Bob, which I wa'an't. An'
because you was born an' raised that-a-way you'd surely like to kep
right hold o' the notion that folks ken still act as though they'd been
weaned on talk of honor an' sichlike. I sez kep a holt on that notion.
Grip it tight, an' don't never let go on it. Grab it same as you would the
feller that's yearnin' fer your scalp. If you lose your grip that
tow-colored scalp of yours'll be raised sure, an' every penicious breeze
that blows 'll get into your think depot and hand you every sort of
mental disease ther' ain't physic enough in the world to cure. Guess
that's plumb right. It don't cut no ice what I think. A feller like me jest
thinks the way life happens to boost him. Y'see, I ain't had no thousand
dollar eddication to make me see things any other ways. Life's a mighty
tough proposition an' it can't be run on no schedule, an' each feller's got
to travel the way he sees with his own two eyes. If he's got the
spectacles of a thousand dollar eddication he's an a'mighty lucky feller,
an' I'm guessin' they'll help him