they came plump
against Bert Rogers' barbed boundary line. West of that was his father's
place--and that stretched to the railroad right-of-way, fenced on either
side with a stock-proof barrier and hugging the Missouri all the way
to the Marias--where were other settlers. If they went north until they
passed the fence of the Happy Family, there were the Meeker holdings to
bar the way to the very foot of Old Centennial, and as far up its sides
as cattle would go.

The Happy Family had planned wisely when they took their claims in a
long chain that stretched across the benchland north of the Flying U.
Florence Grace knew this perfectly well--but what could she prove?
The Happy Family had bought cattle of their own, and were grazing them
lawfully upon their own claims. A lawyer had assured her that there was
no evidence to be gained there. They never went near J. G. Whitmore, nor
did they make use of his wagons, his teams or his tools or his money;
instead they hired what they needed, openly and from Bert Rogers. They
had bought their cattle from the Flying U, and that was the extent of
their business relations--on the surface. And since collusion had been
the ground given for the contests, it will be easily seen what slight
hope Florence Grace and her clients must have of winning any contest
suit. Still, there was that alternative--the Happy Family had been so
eager to build that fence and gather their cattle and put them back on
the claims, and so anxious lest in their absence the settlers should
slip cattle across the dead line and into the breaks, that they had
postponed their trip to Great Falls as long as possible. The Honorable
Blake had tacitly advised them to do so; and the Happy Family never gave
a thought to their being hindered when they did get ready to attend to
it.

But--a pebble killed Goliath.

H. J. Owens, whose eyes were the wrong shade of blue, sat upon a rocky
hilltop which overlooked the trail from Flying U Coulee and a greater
portion of the shack-dotted benchland as well, and swept the far
horizons with his field glasses. Just down the eastern slope, where
the jutting sandstone cast a shadow, his horse stood tied to a dejected
wild-currant bush. He laid the glasses across his knees while he
refilled his pipe, and tilted his hatbrim to shield his pale blue eyes
from the sun that was sliding past midday.

H. J. Owens looked at his watch, nevertheless, as though the position
of the sun meant noth