"The old horse is across the street." The uncle turned and started
toward a very high-powered, expensive car.

"Who was that old chap?" Bob asked of Dayton, who came up from
breakfast just as the car drove off.

"That's Jim Crill--Texas oil fields. Staying at El Centro and looking
for a place to drop his money, I hear. But I wonder who's the lady? I
saw her get off the train with Reedy Jenkins yesterday evening."

"A dear relative," remarked Bob with a grin, "come to take care of him
since his wife died--and he struck oil."

After a moment--the planter finished--Bob asked casually:

"Does Benson own the Red Butte Ranch?"

"No," answered the implement dealer, "it belongs to the Dan Ryan tract.
Dan is one of the very few Americans who has a real title to land on
the Mexican side. When Benson leased it two years ago it was merely
sand hummocks and mesquite, like the rest of the desert. Spent a lot
of money levelling it and getting it ready to water. He lives at Los
Angeles, and is one of those fellows who try to farm with money instead
of brains and elbow grease. Lost a lot on last year's crop, and now he
wants to get rid of his lease."

Bob had been thinking of that ranch most of the time since he fixed the
tractor. He loved the soil, and surely a man could get real returns
from a field like that.

"I wonder," he remarked without meeting his employer's eyes, "if he
would sublease it?"

"Don't know," replied Dayton; "Reedy Jenkins is trying to buy the
lease."

"Then," thought Bob as his employer went into the store, "Jenkins ought
to offer a market for farm machinery. I'll go up and see him."

On his way to Jenkins' office Bob's mind was busy with his own personal
problems. He had been struggling with his ambitions a long time and
never could quite figure why he did not get on faster. He had thought
a great deal the last few days about Jim Crill, the old man with bushy
eyebrows--and oil wells. Two or three things the gruff old chap had
said stuck in Bob's mind. He had begun to wonder if it was not just as
easy for a fellow to make a bad investment of his brains and muscles as
it was with his money. "That's it," he said almost aloud at a definite
conclusion; "I haven't been making a good investment of myself. I
wonder if I could sublease that Red Butte Ranch?"

The more he thought of it, the more anxious he was to get hold of
something he could manage himself. Of course, the idea of farmin