The young fellow started.
"What?" he said in surprise. "I was thinking. I didn't catch your question."
The fact was, he had heard, but had distrusted the sense. The idea of men offering money for the Captain had never occurred to him.
"What do you want for him?"
VB smiled.
"What do I want for him?" he repeated. "I want—feed and water for the rest of his life; shelter when he needs it; the will to treat him as he should be treated. And I guess that's about all."
The other again removed his cigar, and his jaw dropped. A cow-puncher talking so! He could not believe it; and the idea so confused him that he blundered right on with the bargaining. "Five hundred? Seven-fifty? No? Well, how much?"
VB smiled again, just an indulgent smile prompted by the knowledge that he possessed a thing beyond the power of even this man's wealth.
"The Captain is not for sale," he said. "Not to-day—or ever. That's final."
There was more talk, but all the kindly bluffness, all the desire instinctive in Bob Thorpe to give the other man an even break in the bargain, fell flat. This stranger, this thirty-five-dollar-a-month ranch hand, shed his offers as a tin roof sheds rain and with a self-possession characterized by unmistakable assurance.