“Do you deny implication in Glidden’s plot to kill Anderson?” demanded Dorn.

“Yes,” replied Neuman.

“Well, you’re a liar!” retorted Dorn.  “I saw you with Glidden and my father.  I followed you at Wheatly—­out along the railroad tracks.  I slipped up and heard the plot.  It was I who snatched the money from my father.”

Neuman’s nerve was gone, but with his stupid and stubborn process of thought he still denied, stuttering incoherently.

“Glidden has been hanged,” went on Dorn.  “A vigilante band has been organized here in the valley.  Men of your known sympathy will not be safe, irrespective of your plot against Anderson.  But as to that, publicity alone will be enough to ruin you....  Americans of the West will not tolerate traitors....  Now the question you’ve got to decide is this.  Will you take the risks or will you sell out and leave the country?”

“I’ll sell out,” replied Neuman.

“What price do you put on your ranch as it stands?”

“One hundred thousand dollars.”

Dorn turned to Anderson and asked, “Is it worth that much?”

“No.  Seventy-five thousand would be a big price,” replied the rancher.

“Neuman, we will give you seventy-five thousand for your holdings.  Do you accept?”

“I have no choice,” replied Neuman, sullenly.

“Choice!” exclaimed Dorn.  “Yes, you have.  And you’re not being cheated.  I’ve stated facts.  You are done in this valley.  You’re ruined now! And Glidden’s fate stares you in the face....  Will you sell and leave the country?”

“Yes,” came the deep reply, wrenched from a stubborn breast.

“Go draw up your deeds, then notify us,” said Dorn, with finality.

Jake opened the door.  Stolidly and slowly Neuman went out, precisely as he had entered, like a huge man in conflict with unintelligible thoughts.

“Send him home in the car,” called Anderson.

CHAPTER XXIII

For two fleeting days Lenore Anderson was happy when she forgot, miserable when she remembered.  Then the third morning dawned.

At the breakfast-table her father had said, cheerily, to Dorn:  “Better take off your coat an’ come out to the fields.  We’ve got some job to harvest that wheat with only half-force....  But, by George! my trouble’s over.”

Dorn looked suddenly blank, as if Anderson’s cheery words had recalled him to the realities of life.  He made an incoherent excuse and left the table.

“Ah-huh!” Anderson’s characteristic exclamation might have meant little or much.  “Lenore, what ails the boy?”

“Nothing that I know of.  He has been as—­as happy as I am,” she replied.

“Then it’s all settled?”

“Father, I—­I—­”

Kathleen’s high, shrill, gleeful voice cut in:  “Sure it’s settled!  Look at Lenorry blush!”

Lenore indeed felt the blood stinging face and neck.  Nevertheless, she laughed.