reckon.
Well, this is gamblin' on a big scale and it gets into a fellow's blood.
We're all crazy, but we'd hate to be cured."

The driver stopped at the location of Jackpot Number Three and invited
his friend to get out.

"Make yoreself to home, Dave. I reckon you ain't sorry that fool team has
quit joltin' yore shoulder."

Sanders was not, but he did not say so. He could stand the pain of his
wound easily enough, but there was enough of it to remind him pretty
constantly that he had been in a fight.

The fishing for the string of lost tools was going on by lamplight. With
a good deal of interest Dave examined the big hooks that had been sent
down in an unsuccessful attempt to draw out the drill. It was a slow
business and a not very interesting one. The tools seemed as hard to hook
as a wily old trout. Presently Sanders wandered to the bunkhouse and sat
down on the front step. He thought perhaps he had not been wise to come
out with Hart. His shoulder throbbed a good deal.

After a time Bob joined him. Faintly there came to them the sound of an
engine thumping.

"Steelman's outfit," said Hart gloomily. "His li'l' old engine goes right
on kickin' all the darned time. If he gets to oil first we lose. Man who
makes first discovery on a claim wins out in this country."

"How's that? Didn't you locate properly?"

"Had no time to do the assessment work after we located. Dug a sump hole,
maybe. Brad jumps in when the field here began to look up. Company that
shows oil first will sure win out."

"How deep has he drilled?"

"We're a li'l' deeper--not much. Both must be close to the sands. We were
showin' driller's smut when we lost our string." Bob reached into his hip
pocket and drew out "the makings." He rolled his cigarette and lit it.
"I reckon Steelman's a millionaire now--on paper, anyhow. He was about
busted when he got busy in oil. He was lucky right off, and he's crooked
as a dawg's hind laig--don't care how he gets his, so he gets it. He sure
trimmed the suckers a-plenty."

"He and Crawford are still unfriendly," Dave suggested, the inflection of
his voice making the statement a question.

"Onfriendly!" drawled Bob, leaning back against the step and letting a
smoke ring curl up. "Well, tha's a good, nice parlor word. Yes, I reckon
you could call them onfriendly." Presently he went on, in explanation:
"Brad's goin' to put Crawford down and out if it can be done by hook or
crook. He's a big man in the co