a quarter of a million dollars awaits each of us, if you accept my proposition."
Sheridan sat silent, silent as Quong. Yet both men looked beyond the gold and saw visions. Quong, of a principality he would establish in the far East, ease and command. Sheridan, Chico Mesa green with crops, with the flash of water squaring up the fields, of well-fed, well-bred cattle, prosperity, progress in a land where men were, or should be equal.
"Well?"
Sheridan rose and put out his hand.
"I accept, in the name of Altruism," he said. Quong joined the clasp, a leaping, vanishing spark of humor in his secretive eyes.
There was the sound of a rider calling his horse to a halt outside, the clink of spurs, the tread of feet, Jackson coming along the verandah to the outer door. Sheridan returned to Circle S as one set down from a magic carpet.
"We will discuss plans later, Quong," he said. Subtly Hi Luen changed to Quong Li, the cook, consulting the master of the ranch. As Jackson flung open the door he vanished through the inner one.
"She's done gone," announced Jackson. "Bill Grey, who rides herd on the train, will see her off. She's gone now. I waited over to see about my new saddle. Nothin' stirrin' about Hollister. But here's what the operator shouted for me to come an' git as I was lopin' past the depot on my way home. Telegram."
