“Because,” replied Munn, laughing, “she can’t read.”
Sprowl did not believe him, but he was at his mercy. He stood with his heavy head hanging, pondering a moment, then whistled his sorrel. The mare came to him and laid her dusty nose on his shoulder.
“You see these checks?” he said.
Munn assented.
“You get them when you put those papers in my hands. Understand? And when you bring me the deed of this cursed property here—house and all.”
“A week from to-day,” said Munn; his voice shook in spite of him. Few men can face sudden wealth with a yawn.
“And after that—” began Sprowl, and glared at Munn with such a fury that the Prophet hastily stepped backward and raised a nervous hand to his beard.
“It’s a square deal,” he said; and Sprowl knew that he meant it, at least for the present.
The president mounted heavily, and sought his bridle and stirrups.
“I’ll meet you here in a week from to-day, hour for hour; I’ll give you twenty-four hours after that to pack up and move, bag and baggage.”