Henderson asked.

Jerry Bronson looked around at the other members of the Wide Bend
Businessmen's Club. "Doesn't take a lawyer to answer that, Hen."

"Dam' shame," said Caruso, the barber, who always championed underdogs.

"They've had no equity in that land for years. The bank just let them
stay on."

"They can move on over the hill."

Jerry nodded. "Maybe somebody ought to suggest that to them."

"Don't look at me," Caruso said. "Those old coots ain't been near my
shop for years."

When the chuckles died, MacAllister, the druggist, voiced the thought
that rested unspoken on all their minds. "I wonder if that fellow
realizes what a worthless piece of land he's bought."

"He looked it over." This was Hammond, of the bank.

"'Course, you didn't try to talk him out of it!"

"Would you have?" Hammond retorted indignantly.

Henderson jabbed the air with his cigar. "I think he was a coal miner,
back East. Saved up his money to get on the land."

"_I_ think he's a gypsy," Caruso said.

"You ought to know," Tipton, the grocer, laughed. Caruso got fined for
his reply, and with the tinkle of coins in the luncheon club kitty the
men dispersed.

* * * * *

Joe Merklos' relatives arrived that night. Henderson, who told Jerry
Bronson about it, had made an early morning delivery of feed nearby, and
driven on to take a look at Merklos' purchase. From the ridge, he viewed
Dark Valley's three miles of width and six or so of length. Figures were
moving about the gaunt and windowless farm buildings. At least one plow
was in operation, and the good blue friendliness of smoke arose here and
there.

"Looked like a lot of people, Jerry. But you know--I didn't see any cars
or trucks around."

Jerry's blue eyes crinkled. Human nature didn't like puzzles any more
than it liked strangers. He returned to the tedious civil case he was
working on. About three o'clock, he decided he was tired and bored
enough to call it a day. He got into his car and headed for Dark Valley.

Aside from his curiosity, he thought he might talk to the two old
squatters at the far end. The Carvers were independent and truculent.
Now that Joe Merklos' relatives had arrived in full force, there was
danger of a clash.

As the road topped the ridge, it left green fields and orchards abruptly
behind. But Dark Valley had a wild sort of beauty, cupped as it was
between two rows of hills which curved together as higher, jum