“‘This is to certify that Len Ayres has paid me the sum of ten thousand dollars⸺’”
“Wait a minute,” interrupted Len. “That ten thousand is the money I inherited about six months before this gang sent me to the penitentiary. Go ahead, Hashknife.”
“‘Ten thousand dollars in cash, and I hereby give him one-half of the Box S Ranch and everything on it, and one-half of the money in the bank, and of future profits. Len don’t want no deed, so this is a bill of sale. And this is also to certify that in case of my death, everything I own belongs to Len Ayres, and he is to give Whispering Taylor and Sailor Jones a home for life, or as long as he can get along with them. Very truly yours, Jim Harmony Singer Ayres. P.S.—This is my right name, except the Singer part, which is an adopted brand, and nobody’s business.’”
“The warden at the penitentiary kept that for me,” said Len slowly. “I didn’t want a deed, and I reckon most of yuh boys present know why. I managed to save this much out of the wreck.”
“You knew?” said Nan, looking up at him. “Was that why you said, Len, when I asked you if you didn’t trust me, ‘I’ll tell yuh about it some time’?”
Len looked at her closely, and there was a half smile on his thin, drawn lips.
“I reckon it was, Nan. But this ain’t no place to tell yuh about it. C’mon.”
They turned together and walked out of the saloon. Breezy took Baggs and Pollock, and Sleepy went with him. The doctor was working over Cole in Cole’s own room, while the swamper was sitting in a chair near the door, his head bandaged temporarily. He had been the one who carried the tray to the Prentice home.
The sheriff came to Hashknife, his eyes curious.
“What evidence did yuh have against them for all that stuff, Hartley?” he asked.