"Well, Bryce, my boy," he began, "a little bird tells me your daddy
is considering the sale of Cardigan's Redwoods, or the Valley of the
Giants, as your paternal ancestor prefers to refer to that little old
quarter-section out yonder on the edge of town. How about it?"
Bryce stared at him a moment questioningly. "Yes, Judge," he replied,
"we'll sell, if we get our price."
"Well," his visitor drawled, "I have a client who might be persuaded.
I'm here to talk turkey. What's your price?"
"Before we talk price," Bryce parried, "I want you to answer a
question."
"Let her fly," said Judge Moore.
"Are you, directly or indirectly, acting for Colonel Pennington?"
"That's none of your business, young man--at least, it would be none
of your business if I were, directly or indirectly, acting for that
unconvicted thief. To the best of my information and belief, Colonel
Pennington doesn't figure in this deal in any way, shape, or manner;
and as you know, I've been your daddy's friend for thirty years."
Still Bryce was not convinced, notwithstanding the fact that he would
have staked his honour on the Judge's veracity. Nobody knew better
than he in what devious ways the Colonel worked, his wonders to
perform.
"Well," he said, "your query is rather sudden, Judge, but still I can
name you a price.
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