Starlight Riders Boxed-Set 50 Western Classics in One Edition. Ernest Haycox

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      XIII. SURRENDER

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      Miz Satterlee sat at one end of the table, pushing the contract of sale, the deed, and the conveyance of all Stirrup S brands and marks down to William Wells Woolfridge, who sat at the other end. Josiah Craib from his place at the side took the legal instruments and scanned them with a severe glance. He signed as witness, and Mark Eagle likewise affixed his signature. Then Eagle retired from Craib's office, and Woolfridge accepted the papers, in turn passing a check to Miz Satterlee. And by that gesture all the wide-flung range land that was the dream and the pride of old Dad Satterlee passed out of the name and into alien hands. Persistence had finally won—persistence and subterfuge and pressure; the property now belonged to Woolfridge.

      Miz Satterlee accepted the check, hardly looking at it. She sat very straight in the chair. Her mouth was tightly pursed, and her eyes, still the vigorous and expressive eyes of her youth, fell squarely upon Woolfridge.

      "I have given in, sir."

      Woolfridge bowed. "In my life, Mrs. Satterlee, I have found that everybody has a price. It is only a matter of finding that price. You must admit, madam that in this case I have not tried to haggle. You must admit I have paid a just sum."

      "I never argue," replied Miz Satterlee, and for once the weariness showed through. Yet she was too proud to reveal the resentment. "I only say that I sell to you in order to avoid further shedding of blood. I will not stand by and see my boys killed and driven away and ambushed. Nothing is worth that."

      "Surely, Mrs. Satterlee, you are not laying all that to my door—"

      "I detest a liar. Do you deny driving Jim Chaffee out of the country?"

      Woolfridge's chubby cheeks flushed until the freckles were buried in color. The formal politeness congealed. "The man was a murderer. He was escaping from justice—"

      "Do you deny having Mack Moran shot down in the road and nearly killed?"

      "I regret that. I had nothing to do with it. You must realize that he was instrumental in Chaffee's escape and that the posse, disappointed in not bagging him, might have gone beyond reason in shooting Moran. And Moran was really an accessory."

      "Do you deny ordering my cattle stampeded over the bluffs?"

      Woolfridge raised his hand. And at once his face hardened, the autocratic and arbitrary mandarin spirit slanted out beneath his slightly drooping lids. "I owe you all respect, madam, but in fairness—"

      "Fairness, Mr. Woolfridge? I detest a hyprocnte. You have won. Why not be proud of your weapons, since you do so well with them?"

      "I have never denied that I wanted Stirrup S badly, Mrs. Satterlee," was Woolfridge's sharp rejoinder. "Nor have I ever hesitated about the price to be paid. If you desire honesty, I will add that the price includes other items besides that check I have handed you. Now if I can be of any assistance in helping you move—"

      "I require no help. I will remain in the hotel."

      Woolfridge permitted himself a thin smile. "I do not wish to take any further advantage. Knowing that you certainly would not wish to remain under my hospitality I might say that I own the hotel."

      Miz Satterlee rose. "I am glad to know it. In that case I will look for a house."

      "You may probably find that I own a great many of the houses as well," added Woolfridge. He was enjoying this; such courteously spoken phrases with a barbed tip to them were much to his taste now that he was in a position to reveal the extent of his power.

      "Do you own all of Roaring Horse, Mr. Woolfridge?" demanded Miz Satterlee, losing a little of her self-control. "Are you trying to drive me from this county?"

      "I own a great deal of the county—all that I need. No, madam, I am not trying to drive you away. Why should I? But it would perhaps be far better for your own happiness if you did go."

      Josiah Craib broke his long silence. He, too, rose and his bony head bobbed at Woolfridge. "That will be enough. Ma'am, let me escort you to the door." The two of them crossed the bank room. At the door Craib spoke earnestly. "Miz Satterlee, whatever has happened, I wish you could still regard me as a personal friend."

      The woman turned and looked into his sparse, raw-boned face. "Craib," said she with more of sadness and emotion than at any other time during the interview, "I wish I knew you."

      He was about to answer that. Yet he never did. Instead he bowed an awkward, craning motion of his gaunt neck and turned back. Woolfridge was smoking, and Woolfridge studied the banker coldly.

      "My friend, I do not relish orders, nor suggestions."