The Forfeit | Page 2

chair with a certain air of satisfaction. But there
was just a shade of anxiety, too, in the glance with which he favored his
friend. However, he need have felt no misgivings. Bud Tristram had
none. He understood the keen business brain underlying his friend's
tumbled fair hair. Moreover, Jeff, who was only half the older man's
age, was regarded with something like parental affection.
They had fought their way up together from obscure beginnings to their
present affluence, as the owners of the "T.T." ranch and the "O----"
ranch respectively. They had been partners in all but name. Now they
contemplated a definite deed of that nature. It was a consummation
which the older man had looked forward to ever since he first lent a
hand to his new and youthful neighbor. It was a consummation which
Jeffrey, with acute foresight and honest purpose, had set himself to
achieve. If the older man regarded him with almost parental affection,
that regard was fully reciprocated. The business conference between

them had for its purpose their mutual advantage, and both men were
perfectly aware of the fact.
But the thought that slightly worried the younger man was the ease, the
unconcern of his future partner's attitude. It disquieted him because it
increased his responsibility. But long ago he had learned the generous
nature of the Great Bud. Long ago he had realized his trusting
simplicity. Now he would have preferred a keen cross-examination of
his statement. But none was forthcoming, and he was forced to
continue in face of the silent acceptance.
"Bud, old friend, I wish I could get you interested in--figures. And I
guess they surely are interesting, when you apply them to our own
concerns."
But Bud remained unmoved. He stretched himself in an ecstasy of ease,
raising his great arms above his grizzled head in profound enjoyment of
his bodily comfort.
He shook his head.
"Guess I know a steer. Guess I know grass when I see it. I wouldn't say
there's a brand in Montana I ain't familiar with. But
figgers--sums--they're hell. An' I don't guess I'm yearning for hell
anyway. Figgers is a sort o' paradise to you. You're built that way. Say,
I don't calc'late to rob you of a thing--not even paradise. We'll take your
figgers as they stand."
Jeffrey Masters shook his head.
"They're right, sure. But it's no sort of way to talk business."
"Business talk always makes me sweat."
It was quite impossible. Jeffrey was growing impatient. A frown settled
upon his broad brow, and the man in the rocker watched it with amused
eyes.

Quite suddenly the younger man's impatience broke forth into verbal
protest.
"Say, you make me mad. Was there ever such a feller looking for
sharps to play him? How do you know I'm not out to beat you? Why, I
could roll you for every dollar you possess without lying awake five
minutes at night. It's not fair, Bud. It's not fair to me--to you--to your
little Nan----"
"What's not fair to Nan?"
Bud's twinkling eyes shot round upon the open French window with an
alertness scarcely to be expected in a man of such apparent mental
indolence. Jeffrey's eyes cleared of their hot impatience as they sought
a similar direction. The gaze of both men encountered the picture of a
brown-eyed, brown-haired girl of exquisite proportions, standing
framed in the open window. She was clad in a riding suit of light
material, with a long-skirted coat which obviously concealed the
divided skirt beneath. Her long, brown top boots were white with dust
of the trail, and her vicious-looking Mexican spurs hung loosely upon
her heels. Her eyes were bright with intelligence and good humor, and
her pretty oval face smiled out from under the wide brim of an ample
prairie hat.
Jeff began to laugh.
"It's your crazy old father, Nan," he cried. "Say, just look at him. Feast
your eyes on him. Can you beat it? Here we are right up to our necks in
an epoch-making business proposition and he don't concern himself
two whoops. Was there ever such a bunch of simple trusting folly as is
rolled up in that six feet three of good-hearted honesty? That's what's
not fair to--Nan."
The girl came and laid a protecting hand upon the flannel-clad
shoulders of her father. Just for a moment her laughing eyes gazed
affectionately down upon the recumbent form of the only parent she
possessed, and whom she idolized. He was stretched out luxuriously,
his great be-chapped legs reaching to the table leg as a support to hold

the rocker at a comfortable poise. His shirt sleeves were rolled up
displaying a pair of arms like legs of mutton. The beadwork wristlets
were held fixed in their position by the distended muscles beneath