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Cullum, Ridgwell, [pseud.], 1867-1943

"The Forfeit"

T.' territory in days. D'you make it that way?"
Jeff nodded.
"Sure."
But he made no attempt to throw enlightenment.
"Guess you signed the reward."
Bud watched the shadowed serious face of his friend.
"Maybe it's that." There was something like indifference in the
younger man's manner.
Perhaps it was this manner which stirred Bud's impatience and drove him
to resentment.
"Say," he cried, in fiercely vibrant tones, "d'you know what it is I
got in my head? It's the 'hands' on our range. Sure. Ther's some
lousy guy on the Obar working in with the gang. Cowpunchers are a
mongrel lot anyway. Ther' ain't one but 'ud souse the sacrament wine
ef the passon wa'an't lookin' on. I guess we'll need to chase up the
penitentiary re-cord of every blamed thief on our pay-roll. Maybe the
cinch we're lookin' fer lies that way."
"It's curious."
"Curious? Gee, it's rotten!"
The old man's patience completely gave way.
"See right here, Jeff. I ain't rattled. Not a thing. But ther's got
to be some guts put into this thing, an' you an' me's got to find 'em.


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