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Updated: May 7, 2025
I'd set up a reward. Ten thousand dollars. It was right out o' my own bank roll. Wal, I set it up the notice o' reward one night, an' next day got the news we was all yearnin' for. Bob Whitstone, as he called himself, brought it right along to me. I hadn't no use fer the feller up to then. He was weak-kneed. And, in a way, had fallen fer Ju Penrose's rye.
Bob Whitstone unhitched his horse from Ju's tying post. He swung himself into the saddle and rode away, away toward his outland home under the starlit roof of the plains. It was an almost nightly journey with him now, for the saloon habit had caught him in its toils, and was already holding him firmly. His mood was not easy. He resented Ju Penrose. He resented all men of his type.
They went by the name of Whitstone, but their real name, by them papers, was Van Blooren " "What name?" Jeff's voice broke sharply in upon the little man. "Van Blooren." "Go on." Jeff's eyes were gazing out through the lacing of creeper. He was no longer regarding the man's unemotional gray features. "Wal, the place wa'an't worth the five thousand, 'cep' fer one clause in them papers.
"I've done all that's needed. You see, I'm a woman, and I don't guess you need anything more from me. Shall I stop right here, or get back to home?" Bob Whitstone was watching his wife closely as she addressed herself to the rancher. He noted her tone, her evident anxiety now, and he understood. A curious repulsion surged through him.
The rancher turned quickly upon his foreman. "Say, just get along into the shack there, and see how the Doc's making with young Syme. I need a talk with Whitstone." It was not without obvious and resentful reluctance that Lew Hank withdrew. Even his hardihood, however, was unequal to resisting so direct an order from his chief. The two men watched him out of earshot.
For the time at least her surroundings, the poverty and drudgery of her life, were forgotten in the absorbing feelings consuming her. "I tell you, Effie, I was scared plumb scared when I saw what it was," Bob Whitstone ended up.
Then he went on musingly. "I guess he's got a lot to dope out. Say, them guys must have passed near by his shanty." Bob Whitstone reined his pony up with a jerk. He was on a mission that inspired no other emotion than that of repulsion and self-loathing. And these things found reflection in his good-looking face.
"My name is Whitstone Bob Whitstone. You granted me certain grazing rights awhile back. It was some two years ago. Maybe you'll remember. You did it to help me out. Anyway, I came over to see you this morning because I must. If you can spare half an hour I want to see you privately. It's important. You've been robbed last night, and it's about them. The gang, I mean." His pony was still blowing.
"See here, Bob Whitstone," he began, abandoning his glass wiping and supporting himself on his counter, with his face offensively thrust in his opponent's direction, "I ain't got the langwidge you seem to have lapped up with your mother's milk.
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.
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