"You are but seventeen," he said. "A few years hence you will probably marry. Then you can occupy the house yourself. Meanwhile--"
"I will go back to California. Luke will expect me. While I am away I appoint you my man of business. I wish you to have charge of my property at a proper commission."
"I will undertake the charge with pleasure."
Bolton knew how much this would increase his importance in the eyes of the firm by which he was employed. Still, Ernest could not have made a better choice. Bolton was no longer intemperate. He was shrewd and keen, and loyal to his young employer.
Ernest returned to California, but he had lost his old zest for business, now that his fortune was secure. He soon came East again, and entered upon a plan of systematic study, ending with a collegiate course. He brought with him Frank Fox, the son of the dead outlaw, who regarded him with devoted affection. They lived together, and he placed Frank at a well-known school, justly noted for the success of its pupils.
Of the many boys with whom Frank was associated not one suspected that the attractive lad, who was a favorite with all, was a son of the noted desperado whose deeds had been commemorated in dime novels and were a matter of common knowledge in the West. Ernest had cautioned the boy to say as little as possible of his past history.
Years have gone by, and what Bolton predicted has come to pass. Ernest is a young man, a college graduate, and he will soon be married to a young lady of high position in the city of New York. He will go abroad for a year, and on his return will take up his home on his ancestral estate.
Last week he received a letter from a patient in a New York City hospital. It was signed John Franklin, a name with which he was not familiar.
In some wonder he answered the call, and was led to a bed on which lay a gaunt, spectral man, evidently in the last stage of existence.
"Is this John Franklin?" asked Ernest, doubtfully.