The lawyer puffed at his cigar, wholly undisturbed, and then replied: “Mr. Thurston, you have already made a sale.”
“No, by God, I haven’t; nothing of the kind,” replied Thurston. “The truth is that I should get ten million dollars for this ranch, and keep all my horses and cattle, too. I don’t propose to be fleeced by that Los Angeles outfit either,” he continued, running his hands through his hair. “I have it; we’ll break the contract. I’ll bet that option is so faulty that you can drive a load of hay right through it. Hunt up a flaw and we will send them back their option money. I don’t want their $100,000 now.”
“I have already carefully studied the paper,” replied Hawkins, “and can find no flaw in it. It was evidently drawn by a master hand.”
“Master hand be damned,” thundered Thurston. “Why, the stiff wasn’t even a lawyer. He was just one of the syndicate—the one I told you about a while back. He knows so cussed much about titles that the other fellows let him write the option.”
“I see,” replied the attorney, as a half-smile flitted over his face; “about all you seemingly had to do was to sign the option papers and count the option money. The sole hope you have now, Mr. Thurston, in my opinion, is for those Los Angeles gentlemen to let this valuable option lapse. You have only a few days to wait.”
“But I haven’t told you the worst yet,” said Thurston sullenly, dropping again into his chair.
“What do you mean?”
“I had a long-distance telephone this morning from the First National Bank at Los Angeles saying that the million dollars due April 1st has been already paid in to my credit. But I won’t touch the money—I’ll be damned if I do.”
“You have no choice but to accept it,” said the lawyer. “It would be foolish to deceive yourself; San Antonio Rancho is sold, and with the payment just made, you, by the terms of your contract, are compelled to give immediate possession. I can only advise you to take your medicine like a man, but don’t let those Los Angeles gentlemen know that you are swallowing a bitter dose.” He refolded the papers, and pushed them across the table. “Now, Mr. Thurston, if there is anything I can do to assist you in the prosecution of your son’s murderer, I stand ready to do so.” Ben Thurston arose.
“We’ll talk about that tomorrow. I’ll hang Dick Willoughby right enough in good time. Meanwhile you tell me the rancho is sold—that I have lost my great estate for less than half its value? Hell! Isn’t that enough for one night?” And he stalked wrathfully out of the room, slamming the door behind him.