“It is good to be here,” murmured the Frenchman. “I grow strong again among ze mountains. I never go back—never go back to San Quentin, that one horrid prison.” “We’ll nurse you like a baby,” said Buck assuringly, as he led the feeble old man into the adjoining room. CHAPTER XVII—The Bitter Bit ON the very night of Pierre Luzon’s return, Ben Thurston was in close colloquy with his attorney, summoned specially from New York. It was not only the murder of his son that had brought about this consultation. The owner of San Antonio Rancho, while filled with fury against Dick Willoughby, was also gravely perturbed over other things. Immediately after dinner the two men shut themselves up in Thurston’s office. Thurston opened the safe and produced a little bundle of neatly-folded, legal-looking documents. “These are the option papers,” he said gruffly, as he tossed them across the table to the lawyer. “Look them over, Mr. Hawkins.” The attorney glanced through the documents in a preliminary way. “I see the first big payment falls due on April 1st,” he remarked. “Yes, April 1st,” responded Thurston, “and I was a damned fool, too, to let that Trust Company fellow inveigle me into making the date April 1st, instead of March 1st. You see,” he went on, “the taxes come due on March 1st, and on this principality they amount to quite a pretty figure, I can tell you.” “How much?” “Oh, about $18,000.” The lawyer again read the papers through, this time more carefully. “Well, Mr. Thurston,” he said, as he lighted a cigar and sat back in his chair, “I left some very important matters to come to you in answer to your imperative message. What’s the work in hand?” “Why, this option for one thing; and then, too, I want you to help me put the noose around the neck of that scoundrel who killed my son.” “We’ll take one thing at a time, please,” replied the attorney, speaking slowly and quietly. “So far as this option on the rancho is concerned, it seems to be quite regular. Nevertheless, five million dollars is a whole lot of money. Is there any danger of their forfeiting their option payment of $100,000?” “Danger? Forfeiting?” ejaculated Ben Thurston. “Well, I’m not at all afraid of that. My fear now is that they may take up the option.” “Why, didn’t you wish to make the sale?” “Yes, but I am not getting money enough. The ranch is really worth ten million dollars today, in cold cash. I have recently had some San Francisco capitalists down here appraising it for me, but I had already given the option.” “I see that the agreement provides for your cattle and horses going in at the stipulated price.”