Concerned, sympathizing, and indignant, poor Phoebe turned her brown head and honest eyes in that direction. But because they were honest, they could not help observing that the other table did not seem to be paying the slightest attention to the distinguished impersonator of Red-handed Dick. Perhaps he had been overheard.
“Then that was the reason ye didn't come back to your location. I always guessed it was because you'd got wind of the smash-up down there, afore we did,” said Hopkins grimly.
“What smash-up?” asked Jim, with slightly resentful quickness.
“Why, the smash-up of the Sisters' title,—didn't you hear that?”
There was a slight movement of relief and a return of gloomy hauteur in Jim's manner.
“No, we don't know much of what goes on in the cow counties, up here.”
“Ye mout, considerin' it concerns some o' your friends,” returned Hopkins dryly. “For the Sisters' title went smash as soon as it was known that Pedro Valdez—the man as started it—had his neck broken outside the walls o' Robles Rancho; and they do say as this yer Brant, YOUR friend, had suthin' to do with the breaking of it, though it was laid to the ghost of old Peyton. Anyhow, there was such a big skeer that one of the Greaser gang, who thought he'd seen the ghost, being a Papist, to save his everlasting soul went to the priest and confessed. But the priest wouldn't give him absolution until he'd blown the hull thing, and made it public. And then it turned out that all the dockyments for the title, and even the custom-house paper, were FORGED by Pedro Valdez, and put on the market by his confederates. And that's just where YOUR friend, Clarence Brant, comes in, for HE had bought up the whole title from them fellers. Now, either, as some say, he was in the fraud from the beginnin', and never paid anything, or else he was an all-fired fool, and had parted with his money like one. Some allow that the reason was that he was awfully sweet on Mrs. Peyton's adopted daughter, and ez the parents didn't approve of him, he did THIS so as to get a holt over them by the property. But he's a ruined man, anyway, now; for they say he's such a darned fool that he's goin' to pay for all the improvements that the folks who bought under him put into the land, and that'll take his last cent. I thought I'd tell you that, for I suppose YOU'VE lost a heap in your improvements, and will put in your claim?”
“I reckon I put nearly as much into it as Clar Brant did,” said Jim gloomily, “but I ain't goin' to take a cent from him, or go back on him now.”
The rascal could not resist this last mendacious opportunity, although he was perfectly sincere in his renunciation, touched in his sympathy, and there was even a film of moisture in his shifting eyes.
Phoebe was thrilled with the generosity of this noble being, who could be unselfish even in his superior condition. She added softly:—