Ben Thurston was a squat, solidly built man, and despite his life of idle luxury, carried his fifty odd years well. He was sullen and taciturn in manner, but brusque and imperious when he did choose to speak. Two features were markedly characteristic—the chin was weak and the eyes had the restless, alert look of one who constantly lived in an atmosphere of fear and suspicion.
Thurston opened the conversation without any preliminaries.
“Willoughby, I want an accurate count of all the cattle and horses on the ranch; and especially I require a fair idea as to the number of fatted beeves—those ready for the market, you understand.”
“Very well,” replied Dick, “your orders shall be carried out as expeditiously as possible, but it will require a few days to complete the work.”
“How many days?”
“If I make use of all the force it may take a week—perhaps a little longer.”
“All right, use all the help you can get. I must have these figures promptly. There is a Los Angeles syndicate who are after an option on the rancho. They are counting on buying me out—lock, stock and barrel.” Ben Thurston smiled, squinted his shifty eyes and blew his nose vigorously.
“It always makes me laugh,” he added pompously, “to have these fellows come around this great principality of mine and try to buy me out.”
Just then someone outside flitted past the window, and, quick as lightning, Thurston turned and exclaimed in a startled tone: “Who was that?”
“That was Jack Rover,” replied Dick, “one of our cowboys.”