“He will assume all indebtedness an’ pay yuh twenty thousand cash.”
“He’s darn generous. The ranch is worth five times that. Yuh can tell this client of yours that Miss Reed refuses his offer,” Spur Treadwell cried.
“Miss Reed, I hope yuh understand that I am not pressing yuh,” One-wing McCann assured her, as she moved toward the door.
Out in the street, she turned to Bill McAllister and Spur Treadwell.
“I want to thank yuh for the way yuh stood back of me,” she murmured.
Bill McAllister grumbled an unintelligible reply, cast a searching look at Treadwell, and then walked slowly toward the livery stable to secure the team and buckboard. He racked his brains, but could not discover the negro in the woodpile. Nor could he in any way decide how Spur was concerned or responsible in the remotest way for the present situation.
Another problem troubled him. How were the rustlers disposing of their stolen stock? The Double R range had been robbed wholesale, and Bill McAllister had learned through the Cattlemen’s Association that no large herds that were not absolutely bona fide had been sold. Yet the rustlers must get their stock out some way.
McAllister shook his head and commenced to harness the two horses. He was brought out of his meditations by a low voice close to him.
“Yuh Mr. McAllister?”
He nodded.