And since that day they had seen many ranges and the other side of many hills; but there were always more ranges ahead—more hills to cross. It had not been a profitable partnership as far as money was concerned. Right now they had less money than they had the day they left the old Hashknife ranch; but behind them were memories that money could not buy; memories of people who prayed that some day these two cowboys might come back and help enjoy the happiness their work had wrought.
Life had made them fatalists. Death had struck at them many times, but missed. Sometimes it was very close. They both bore scars of conflict, and they fully realized the danger of their work; realized that some day the pendulum of fortune might swing the wrong way.
In many localities they were marked men. Their reputation was well known, and among those who worked outside the law, they were spoken of as something to be avoided. Neither of them was a split-second gunman, nor were they of the dead-shot variety; but many times had they walked out of a powder-smoke haze unscathed, while gun-men had to be carried out feet-first.
CHAPTER XII—THE HALF-BOX R
“A hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars!” exploded Chuck Ring. “Didn’t I tell yuh, Slim? Didn’t I? By golly, I knew what I was talkin’ about, didn’t I?”
“You said a million,” reminded Scotty McKay.
“What’s the difference? Dang near a million, ain’t it? I’ll betcha you wouldn’t know the difference, if yuh saw the two amounts together. Just think of a hundred and thirty-two thousand! Why, yuh can’t ee-magine it!”
“Takes brains,” admitted Scotty seriously.
The representative of the express company nodded gravely, sucking heavily on his cigar. He was seated in the sheriff’s office, occupying the extra chair, while the two deputies squatted against the wall. Slim Caldwell leaned back in his chair, feet crossed on top of his desk, a frown between his eyes.
“That’s what it amounts to,” said the Wells Fargo man. “There’s a five-thousand-dollar reward.”