“And the land?”
“Oh, he held on to that.”
“Is there much of it?”
“A hundred thousand acres,” said Ware.
Murrell whistled softly under his breath.
“What's it worth?”
“A pot of money, two or three dollars an acre anyhow,” answered Ware.
“Quintard has been dead two years, Tom, and back yonder in North Carolina they told me he left nothing but the home plantation. The boy lived there up to the time of Quintard's death, but what relation he was to the old man no one knew. What do you suppose Fentress wants with him? He offered me five thousand dollars if I'd bring him West; and he still wants him, only he's lying low now to see what comes of the two old sots—he don't want to move in the dark. Offhand, Tom, I'd say that by getting hold of the boy Fentress expects to get hold of the Quintard land.”
“That's likely,” said Ware, then struck by a sudden idea, he added, “Are you going to take all the risks and let him pocket the cash? If it's the land he's after, the stake's big enough to divide.”
“He can have the whole thing and welcome, I'm playing for a bigger stake.” His friend stared at him in astonishment. “I tell you, Tom, I'm bent on getting even with the world! No silver spoon came in the way of my mouth when I was a youngster; my father was too honest—and I think the less of him for it!”