Bryce stared at him a moment questioningly.  “Yes, Judge,” he replied, “we’ll sell, if we get our price.”

“Well,” his visitor drawled, “I have a client who might be persuaded.  I’m here to talk turkey.  What’s your price?”

“Before we talk price,” Bryce parried, “I want you to answer a question.”

“Let her fly,” said Judge Moore.

“Are you, directly or indirectly, acting for Colonel Pennington?”

“That’s none of your business, young man—­at least, it would be none of your business if I were, directly or indirectly, acting for that unconvicted thief.  To the best of my information and belief, Colonel Pennington doesn’t figure in this deal in any way, shape, or manner; and as you know, I’ve been your daddy’s friend for thirty years.”

Still Bryce was not convinced, notwithstanding the fact that he would have staked his honour on the Judge’s veracity.  Nobody knew better than he in what devious ways the Colonel worked, his wonders to perform.

“Well,” he said, “your query is rather sudden, Judge, but still I can name you a price.  I will state frankly, however, that I believe it to be over your head.  We have several times refused to sell to Colonel Pennington for a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Naturally that little dab of timber is worth more to Pennington than to anybody else.  However, my client has given me instructions to go as high as a hundred thousand if necessary to get the property.”

“What!”

“I said it.  One hundred thousand dollars of the present standard weight and fineness.”

Judge Moore’s last statement swept away Bryce’s suspicions.  He required now no further evidence that, regardless of the identity of the Judge’s client, that client could not possibly be Colonel Seth Pennington or any one acting for him, since only the night before Pennington had curtly refused to buy the property for fifty thousand dollars.  For a moment Bryce stared stupidly at his visitor.  Then he recovered his wits.

“Sold!” he almost shouted, and after the fashion of the West extended his hand to clinch the bargain.  The Judge shook it solemnly.  “The Lord loveth a quick trader,” he declared, and reached into the capacious breast pocket of his Prince Albert coat.  “Here’s the deed already made out in favour of myself, as trustee.”  He winked knowingly.

“Client’s a bit modest, I take it,” Bryce suggested.

“Oh, very.  Of course I’m only hazarding a guess, but that guess is that my client can afford the gamble and is figuring on giving Pennington a pain where he never knew it to ache him before.  In plain English, I believe the Colonel is in for a razooing at the hands of somebody with a small grouch against him.”

“May the Lord strengthen that somebody’s arm,” Bryce breathed fervently.  “If your client can afford to hold out long enough, he’ll be able to buy Pennington’s Squaw Creek timber at a bargain.”