He sat there, his bow-legs spread apart, his hands folded across his ample abdomen, staring thoughtfully at the little white cross down at the end of the garden.
“You're a heap like your mother” he said presently, and sighed.
When Bob returned with the order for the registered letter, Mr. Hennage tucked it carefully in his side coat pocket; then from his rear hip pocket he produced Bob McGraw's automatic gun.
“I took charge o' this the night o' the mix-up” he explained as he returned it. He looked hard at Bob. “When you're ready to toddle about” he added, with a lightning wink and a slight movement of his fat thumb and forefinger, as if counting a stack of imaginary bills, “send Sam Singer up to let me know. Comprende, amigo?”
Bob smiled at this sinful philanthropist. “Not necessary, old man—if you'll drop in at the Kern County Bank and Trust Company in Bakersfield to-morrow and get me a check-book. I have owed you fifty for three years and I'd like to square up.”
“Sure you ain't bluffin' on no pair?”
“Thank you, Harley. I have a small stake.”
“Well, holler when you're hit.” He waved his hand and departed with a “Buenas noches, children.”
Scarcely had the gate slammed behind him when Bob turned to Donna with beaming face.
“They're after my water-right, sweetheart—they're after it already!” His exultant laugh rang through the patio, “I knew I was treading on somebody's toes when I filed on that water, Donna. By George, I must investigate T. Morgan Carey and ascertain the kind of man I have to fight.”