Slone recoiled--looked up. Bostil! The old rider was eying
him with cool speculation.
"Wal, are you drunk?" he queried, without any particular expression.
Yet the query was to Slone like a blow. It brought his head up with a jerk,
his glance steady and keen on Bostil's.
"Bostil, you know I don't drink," he said.
"A-huh! I know a lot about you, Slone. . . . I heard you bought Vorhees's
place, up on the bench."
"Yes."
"Did he tell you it was mortgaged to me for more'n it's worth?"
"No, he didn't."
"Did he make over any papers to you?"
"No."
"Wal, if it interests you I'll show you papers thet proves the property's
mine."
Slone suffered a pang. The little home had grown dearer and dearer to him.
"All right, Bostil. If it's yours--it's yours," he said, calmly enough.
"I reckon I'd drove you out before this if I hadn't felt we could make a
deal."
"We can't agree on any deal, Bostil," replied Slone, steadily. It was not what
Bostil said, but the way he said it, the subtle meaning and power behind it,
that gave Slone a sense of menace and peril.
Pages:
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391