; if what of the precious fluid could be taken from the creeks
and springs would not be drunk up by the thirsty sands as though it
had been scattered carelessly by the spoonfuls, as a blotter drinks
drops of ink. He even began to wonder uneasily if Lonesome Pete had
been right when he had said that another name for such an attempt at
reclamation was simple "damn foolishness." The water had not come yet;
it was still running in its time-worn courses down the mountain-sides;
but something else was being drunk up daily by the parched gullet of
the dry country. And that something else was Mr. Crawford's money. His
fortune was no doubt very large; it must run into many figures before
Rattlesnake Valley grew green with fertility.

He came at last into the little town, passed the cottage where he had
worked with Argyl, and drew up before a four-roomed, rough, unpainted
building, with a sign over the door saying, "GENERAL OFFICE
CRAWFORD RECLAMATION COMPANY." Swinging down from his horse,
which he left with reins upon the ground, he went in at the open door.
Within there were bare walls, bare floor, and three or four cheap
chairs. Under the windows looking to the south there ran a long, high
table, covered with papers and blue-prints. Another long table ran
across the middle of the room. At it, facing him, perched upon a high
stool, a young man, a pencil behind each ear, his sleeves rolled up,
was working over some papers. In one corner of the same room another
young fellow, hardly more than a boy--eighteen or nineteen,
perhaps--was ticking away busily at a typewriter.

The man in shirt-sleeves working at the second long table looked up as
Conniston came in. He was a pale, not over-strong--looking chap,
somewhere about Conniston's own age, his short-cropped yellow hair
pushed straight back from a high forehead, his lips and eyes
good-humored and at the same time touched vaguely with a tender
wistfulness. Conniston imagined immediately that this was Garton, Bat
Truxton's helper.

"You're Mr. Garton?" he said, voicing his impression as he came
forward.

"No one else," Garton answered him, pleasantly. "Tom Garton at your
service. And you're Conniston from the Half Moon?"

He put out his hand without rising. Conniston took it, surprised as
he did so at the quick, strong grip of the slender fingers.

"I'm glad to know you, Conniston. Glad you're to be with us. Oh yes, I
knew a couple of days ago that you were coming over. Mr.