Now that these men had seen
the notice with their own eyes the force of all Ju had so recently
contended came home to them. There was not one amongst that little
gathering who did not realize the extent of the odds militating against
the rustlers. Ten thousand dollars! There was not a man present who
did not feel the tremendous power of such a reward.
The gathering melted away slowly, and finally Bob Whitstone was left
alone before the gleaming sheet of paper, with Ju standing in his
doorway. The lantern was at his feet upon the sill. His hands were
thrust in the tops of his shabby trousers. He was regarding the
"gentleman" rancher meditatively, and his half burnt cigar glowed under
the deep intake of his powerful lungs.
"It's a dandy bunch, Bob, eh?" he demanded presently, in an ironical
tone. "Guess I'd come nigh sellin' my own father fer--ten thousand
dollars. An' I don't calc'late I'd get nightmare neither." Then he
drew a deep breath which suggested regret. "But--it ain't comin' my
way. No. Not by a sight.
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