“Where does it belong?”
“You mentioned the name of the man not two minutes ago—Clifford Henderson.”
“Aha! You do know that man, don’t you?”
“Yes; and now you know my secret, for I have got a secret as well as the old man,” said Johnson; and as he spoke he reached out and pulled his six shooters within easy handling distance, turning the butt of one up, so that he could catch it at a moment’s warning.
Now, I suppose some of my readers will think I was in no danger about that time, but I knew I was. My life hung upon the words I uttered during the next few minutes. If I had refused I would never have known what hurt me. Johnson would have shot me down and then reported to Mr. Davenport that I had insulted him; and as there was no one present to overhear our conversation, that would have been the last of it. Law was not as potent then as it is in Texas in our day, and Johnson’s unsupported word would have been taken, there being no evidence to the contrary. I tell you I was in something of a fix.
“How does it come that Henderson has so much interest in this property?” I enquired.
“Why, Bob is no relative of Davenport’s at all. He picked him up in the gold mines,—where his father died and left him,—named him Davenport, and the boy has been brought up to believe that he has an interest in all his stocks and bonds. I wish I had known a little more about that when I came here. I told the old man some funny stories about my being in the gold mines,” he added, with a laugh.
“And Henderson doesn’t want him to have it. It seems to me that it would be the part of policy for Henderson to come here and live with Mr. Davenport.”
“Oh, that wouldn’t do at all!” exclaimed the man hastily. “He used to live with him in St. Louis, but they had an awful row when they separated, and he is afraid the old man will go to work to adopt the boy. I tell you he don’t want him to do that!”
“It seems very strange that Mr. Davenport hasn’t adopted him before this time.”