“What kind of a law do you call this?” said Henderson, putting his hand into his pocket. “If I had a pack of Comanches to decide for me I would stand just as much show.”
“Well, it is the law here, and you are a fool for bucking against it,” said Mr. Chisholm, as the money was placed in his hands. It was a large pile of money to contain one hundred dollars, and I was glad to see that he spoke about it. “Judging by the contents of your pocket you got rather more than a hundred dollars while you were about it,” he added, with a smile. “So far so good! Now the next thing is the reading of the will.”
Mr. Chisholm, who was the coolest man I ever saw to pass through such an ordeal, seated himself on the grass hummock again, and produced the pocket-book from inside his coat. He opened it and laid it upon his knee, and of course we all strained our necks to get a glimpse of it. The first thing that came into view was a little pile of letters, all endorsed, and confined by a rubber band such as business men use to keep their correspondence in one place. Mr. Chisholm pulled the topmost one out and looked at it.
CHAPTER VII.
TOM HAS AN IDEA.
“The first thing I have struck here is a receipt for $23.40 paid to Lemuel Bailley, dated October 23, 18—. Why, that’s a long time before the drought came,” said Mr. Chisholm, looking up. “Is Bailley here?”
“Here, sir,” responded Bailley, who was one of Mr. Davenport’s cowboys. “I remember of giving Mr. Davenport that receipt. I wanted it to—to——”
“Go on a spree with,” interrupted Mr. Chisholm. “Well, you got it, didn’t you? The next is also a receipt. And so is the next one, and the next one. In fact I don’t see anything but receipts here.”
Mr. Chisholm continued to call out the names of the payees of the receipts, some containing money paid to the cowboys, some relating to supplies of various kinds purchased at the store, handing each one to some man who stood near him to see if he was right, until he had but few papers left in the bundle. The longer he read the more astonished he became, until finally he turned the pocket-book upside down to show that it was empty.
“That’s all,” said he. “There is nothing but receipts in it. What is your pleasure with the pocket-book? Shall it go to this man who has not grieved any over Mr. Davenport’s death——”