For all the news that came to Comanche over the telephone-wire that day must come through the office of The Chieftain. There was but one telephone in the town; that was in the office of the stage-line, and by arrangement with its owners, the editor had bottled up the slightest chance of a leak.
There would be no bulletins, the editor announced. Anyone desiring news of the drawing must pay twenty-five 83 cents for a copy of the paper containing it. It was the editor’s one great chance for graft, and he meant to work it until it was winded.
The lottery was to open in Meander at ten o’clock; but long before that hour the quivering excitement which shook the fabric of Comanche had reached the tent where Mrs. Reed mothered it over the company of adventurers. The lumberman and insurance agent were away early; Sergeant Schaefer and Milo Strong followed them to the newspaper office very shortly; and the others sat out in front, watching the long shadows contract toward the peg that June had driven in the ground the day before at the line of ten o’clock.
“Well, this is the day,” said William Bentley. “What will you take for your chance, Doctor?”
“Well, it wouldn’t take very much to get it this morning,” Dr. Slavens replied, peering thoughtfully at the ground, “for it’s one of those things that grow smaller and smaller the nearer you approach.”
“I’d say twenty-five hundred for mine,” offered Horace.
“Great lands!” exclaimed Mrs. Reed, blinking, as she looked out across the open toward the river. “If anybody will give me three dollars for my chance he can take it, and welcome.”
“Then you’d feel cheap if you won,” June put in. “It’s worth more than that even up in the thousands; isn’t it, Mr. Walker?”
Walker was warm in his declaration that it would 84 be a mighty small and poor piece of Wyoming that wouldn’t be worth more than that.
“We haven’t heard from you, Miss Horton,” said William Bentley.