“By they, you mean Lem Huntington, don’t you?”
“He was willing enough, at first. But his daughter——Well, to tell the truth, it was a dirty scheme. I was to tell them the ranch was wanted for a resort—one of those free-and-easy hangouts for the sporting crowd. It seems as if there’s a grave in the garden—her mother’s grave. And the girl wouldn’t—I certainly understand how she feels.”
“Her mother’s grave,” repeated the unknown very slowly.
The horse jogged along with its double burden. Far ahead, a tiny blur of black showed the location of the Huntington ranch.
“My leg is hurting me fearfully,” said Lennox at last. “Damn them! You don’t think there’s danger of blood-poisoning, do you?”
“I’ve heard a lot about Miss Huntington. They say she’s a mighty fine gal. I’d kinder like to know the pertick’lars if you don’t mind tellin’ ’em. No, I don’t guess there’s danger o’ blood-poisonin’. You’ll be all right in a month or two, mebby.”
Lennox groaned at the cheerless prospect that confronted him.
Presently, however, he began the story of the efforts of the Quintell gang to purchase the Huntington holdings. His indignation over their treatment of him loosened his tongue, caused him to overlook not one detail that might go to illustrate the infamous methods by which they operated. From their discovery that the two prospectors, Peter Boyd and Jerome Liggs, had located the bonanza claims, how he had been delegated to talk Huntington into selling, his meeting with Big George Rankin in San Francisco and later with Dot and her father in the Golden West Hotel; all this he related and concluded with the quarrel he and Rankin had had on the street following his failure to buy the ranch.
“An’ he said that—that Quintell mebby could use her, as his stenographer?” said the stranger. His voice was like ice in the other’s ear.
“Yes, and about as nasty as a man could say it.”