The Forfeit | Page 6

of the
Cathill Mountains, which, in turn, formed a projecting spur of the main
range of the Rockies.
Orrville was the township and Ju Penrose was the pioneer of its
commerce. He was a man of keen instincts for commerce of his own
especial brand, and rejoiced in a disreputable past. He possessed a thin,
hooked nose of some dimensions, which never failed to cut a way for
its owner into the shady secrets of his neighbors. He possessed a
temper as amiable and mild as a spring lamb when the stream of
prosperity and profit flowed his way, and as vitriolic as a she-wolf in
winter, when that stream chanced to become diverted into a neighbor's
direction.

He was considered a man of some importance in the place. But this was
probably the result of the nature of his trade, which, in the eyes of the
denizens of the neighborhood, certainly possessed an advantage over
such stodgy callings as "dry goods." But besides the all-important
thirst-quenching purpose of his establishment, it had become a sort of
bureau for large and small transactions of a ranching nature, and a
resort where every sort of card game could be freely indulged in,
without regard for the limit of the stakes, and had thus gained for itself
the subsidiary title amongst its clientele of "Ju's Poker Joint."
At the moment Ju's usually busy tongue was taking a well-earned rest,
and his hawk-like visage was shrouded in a deep, contemplative repose.
His always bloodshot eyes were speculative as he surveyed the
smoke-laden scene from behind his shabby bar. The place was full of
drinkers and gamblers. The hour was past midnight. And he was
estimating silently the further spending possibilities of his customers,
and consequently considering the advisability of closing down.
A group of three ranch hands leaned against the centre of the bar. Their
glasses were empty and none of them seemed anxious to command
their refilling. They were talking earnestly. And their voices were
unusually modulated. Just beyond these a slight, good-looking man in
chapps, with a face of particularly refined but somewhat debauched
appearance, was obviously interested in their talk, although he took no
part in it. On the other side of them, away at the far end of the bar,
leaned a solitary, tough-looking drinker, who seemed to take no interest
whatever in his surroundings. Every man in the place, the dozen or so
occupying the card tables included, was fully armed in the customary
fashion prevailing in this distant corner of the ranching world, and it
would have needed no second thought to realize that these heavy,
loaded weapons were not by any means intended for decorative
purposes.
"Wal, anyways they're a long time fixin' things," observed one of the
three at the centre of the bar, with a yawn that displayed a double row
of gleaming white teeth. "The boss guessed I'd best wait around, so it
ain't a heap o' use kickin'. I'll hev to wait till the durned committee's

through, if it takes 'em sittin' as long us a hide-bound hen."
"It's allus that-a-way when folks gets on a committee racket, Curly,"
replied one of his friends with a sympathetic grin.
"That's just how, Dan," agreed the third. "Hot air. That's what it is. This
tarnation Vigilance stunt sets folk whisperin' among 'emselves 'bout the
hell goin' to be ladled out to all cattle thieves in general. Gives 'em
visions of hangin'-bees, an' a sort o' firework display with guns an'
things, an' when they hatched out, what's the result? Why, a waste o'
hot air, an'--no checkens."
"'T'so, Dan," agreed Curly, with easy decision. "The boss is too near
relative of a fancy gentleman for to hand out the sort o' dope rustlers
need. If us boys had the job we'd fix things quick. You'd see this bum
gang kicking air at the end of a rope 'fore Ju, here, had time to dope out
four fingers of rotgut at the expense of the house."
He leered across at the unsmiling face of the saloon-keeper. Ju
permitted himself to be drawn.
"Nothin' doin', Curly." A solemn shake of the head set his walrus
moustache flapping. Then he drew a cigar from a top vest pocket and
bit the end through, brushing his moustache aside to discover a place in
which to deposit it in his mouth. "I'd sure hate to dope out any rotgut on
you boys. Y'see, I sure got your health at heart. I kind o' love you
fellers to death. I'd hate to see you sufferin' at my hands. Guess I was
raised Christian."
"Was you?"
Curly's sarcasm achieved the laugh intended, and, as a result of his
satisfaction, he flung his last half-dollar on the dingy bar.
"Make that into three drops