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

"The Forfeit"

None
of these things escaped Jeff, any more than did the fellow's clumsy
regard. He wondered how much truth--if any--lay behind that mask of
wicked eyes and brutish features.
"I'm waiting."
Jeff's demand came with a rasp. The man's delay in reply had conveyed
all he wanted to know of the truth in him.
"Wot youngster? I tell you I didn't send no one in." There was
truculence in the denial. "Wot's the lies?"
The ranchman was no match for the keen mind of his employer. In brute
force he might have been more than his equal. But even that was
doubtful. While he was speaking Jeff moved. Up to that moment he had
been facing the foreman with his back turned toward the distant door.
Now his movement placed him against the table with his back to the
other empty bunk, and his focus took in not only the man before him,
but the shadowy outline of the distant half-open door.
"It's the boy we took on the other day at--your recommendation. Your
recommendation. Get me? Guess he came with the yarn you were shot to
death.


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