"You mean this?" he gasped blankly, as his surprise became articulate.
"Yes. You have quite the better of King Richard—you gain both the kingdom and the horse."
"The store, yes, the store—mine! Mine—the store!" said Prather, in a slow, passionate monotone, his fingers trembling with the very triumph of possession as he thrust the letter into his pocket. "The store, yes, the store!" he repeated, amazement mixed with exultation. "But—" his keen, practical mind was recovering its balance; he was on guard again. Between him and the realization of his inheritance lay the shadow of the fear of the miles in the night. "But—there is no trick?" he hazarded in suspicion.
"No!"
Jack spoke in such a way that it removed the last doubt for Prather, who kneaded his palms together in a kind of frenzy, oblivious of all except the moneyed prospect of the kingdom craved that had become a kingdom won.
"How long before I start?" he asked.
"As soon as the first darkness settles and before the moon rises."
"I shall need some food," Prather went on ingratiatingly. "And they say wounds bring on fever. Have you any water to drink on the way?"
"We will fix you up the best we can. I will divide what water remains between you and P.D. He shall have his share now and you can drink yours later."
The sun had set. The afterglow was fading, and in a few minutes, when the light was quite out of the heavens, Jack announced that it was time for Prather to start.