oke.
Then it was Little Joe in his solemn bass voice.

"Sounds man-sized," he declared. "Wears a bullet for a watch-fob, busts
hosses for fun, sleeps one day a week, and don't work under a boss.
Hervey, you'll have to put on kid gloves when you talk to that Perris,
eh? Hey, where you going?"

"He's going out to think it over!" chuckled another. "He needs air, and
I don't blame him. Just as soon be foreman over a wildcat as over a gent
like Perris. There goes the gong!"

CHAPTER XIII

THE BARGAIN

But in spite of the dinner bell, Hervey made for the corrals instead of
the house, roped and saddled the fastest pony in his string, jogged out
to the eastern trail, and then sent his mount at a run into the evening
haze. After a time he drew back to a more moderate gait, but still the
narrow firs shot smoothly and swiftly past him for well over half an
hour until the twilight settled into darkness and the treetops moved
past the horseman against a sky alive with the brighter stars of the
mountains. He reached the hills. The trail tangled into zigzag lines,
tossing up and down, dodging here and there. And in one of these elbow
turns, a team of horses loomed huge and black above him, and against the
stars behind the hilltop it seemed as though the team were stepping out
into the thin air. Behind them, Lew Hervey made out the low body of the
buckboard and on the seat a squat, bunched figure with head dropped so
low that the sombrero seemed to rest flat on the shoulders.

Hervey raised his hand with a shout of relief: "Hey, Jordan!"

The brakes crashed home, but the impetus of the downgrade bore the wagon
to the bottom of the little slope before it came to a stop and Hervey
was choked by the cloud of dust. He fanned a clear path for his voice.

"It's me. Hervey." And he came close to the wagon.

"Well, Lew?" queried the uninterested voice of the master.

Hervey leaned a little from the saddle and peered anxiously at the "big
boss." He counted on creating a panic with his news. But a man past hope
might very well be a man past fear. Hopeless Oliver Jordan certainly had
been since his accident, hopeless and blind. That blindness had enabled
Hervey to reap tidy sums out of his management of the ranch, and now
that the coming of the sharp-eyed girl had cut off his sources of
revenue he was ready to fight hard to put himself back in the saddle as
unquestioned master of the Valley of the Eagles. But he could only work
on