as
standing in their midst, right in front of the notice, which had been
indited in ink, evidently executed with a piece of flat wood. He was
holding up a lantern, and every eye was carefully, and in many
instances laboriously, studying the text inscribed.

It was a notice of reward. A reward of ten thousand dollars for
information leading to the capture of the gang of cattle thieves known
as the "Lightfoot gang." And it was signed by Dug McFarlane on behalf
of the Orrville Rancher's Vigilance Committee.

"Guess Ju knowed after all," somebody observed, in a confidential tone
to his neighbor.

But Ju's ears were as long and sharp as his tongue. He flashed round
on the instant, his lantern lowered from the level of the notice board.
There was a sort of cold triumph in his manner as his eyes fell upon
the speaker.

"Know'd?" he cried sharply. "Ain't 'knowin'' my business? Psha!" His
contempt was withering. Then his manner changed back to the triumph
which the notice had inspired. "Say, it's a great piece of money. It
surely is some bunch. Ten thousand dollars! Gee! His game's up.
Lightfoot's as good as kickin' his heels agin the breezes. He's played
his hand, an'--lost."

And somehow no one seemed inclined to add to his statement. Nor, which
was much more remarkable, contradict it. Now that these men had seen
the notice with their own eyes the force of all Ju had so recently
contended came home to them. There was not one amongst that little
gathering who did not realize the extent of the odds militating against
the rustlers. Ten thousand dollars! 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. He was regarding the
"gentleman" rancher meditatively, and his half burnt cigar glowed under
the deep intake of his powerful lungs.

"It's a dandy bunch, Bob, eh?" he demanded presently, in an ironical
tone. "Guess I'd come nigh sellin' my own father fer--ten thousand
dollars. An' I don't calc'late I'd get nightmare neither." Then he
drew a deep breath which suggested regret. "But--it ain't comin' my
way. No. Not by a sight." Then, after a watchful pause, he
continued: "I'm kind o' figgerin' whose way. Not mine, or--yo