bled
foothills to the west.

Jerry's car trailed a plume of dust as it slid down to the dry riverbed.
He made a left turn and started up the valley road. At the first farm he
saw dark, plump women in billowing dresses, wearing peasant scarves over
their heads. They moved about the barnyard, raking dead leaves and
scratching busily at the baked earth of the old truck gardens. Chickens
and ducks strayed, and Jerry caught a glimpse of children. He waved to
the group and was answered by nods and flashing smiles.

Then he had a shock. One of the women was working the handle of a pump
that had been bone-dry for fifteen years--and a slender stream of clear
water spilled into her wooden tub!

Somewhat dazedly, Jerry drove on. He saw more of the Merklos people at
other farms. Men were working in the withered orchards. New fence posts
and rails were going up; bright axes flashed in the dry and scraggly
wood lots.

Jerry's thoughts kept returning to the water in that first pump. Could
it be that they had learned the valley had a supply again? That would be
a mighty joke on Hammond and the First National Bank.

The road, badly rutted by erosion and drifted over with sand and dry
leaves, began to rise. Jerry shifted into low gear. Then, suddenly, he
stopped. He'd had another shock. He had just realized this road was
_unused_. He recalled the twin ruts, patterned with rabbit and bird
tracks, clear back to the turn-off. Without question, his car had been
the first to mark the road since winter.

Then how had these dozens of people come, with their chickens and ducks
and children and tools? He had seen no cars, no wagons, no carts. _How
had these people come?_

Jerry sat back in the seat and grinned. He fished out his tobacco pouch
and filled his pipe. There were times when he considered himself fairly
mature, fairly well balanced. Yet he was as ready as the next to build a
house of mystery out of the insubstantial timber of ignorance.

Of course there was a reasonable explanation. They must have walked from
the railroad. It was a good many miles, but it was perfectly possible.

Feeling better, Jerry followed the tortuous road to the western crest.
His long legs hadn't taken him far from the car when he heard a harsh,
"Hold up!"

First one, then the other Carver brother stepped out from a scrub oak
thicket--short, leathery old men, with ragged whiskers and dirt seamed
into their faces and wrists. They eyed him malevolently