nd there loaded with powder
and with balls, shots, bullets or slugs of lead or other metal. You see
to that, personal. I'd go to him myself, but he don't know me well
enough to have confidence in my divinations.

"You promulgate these prophecies as your sole personal device and
construction--_sabe?_ Then, thirty days after Lake signs a receipt for
his decision--and you will take steps to inform yourself of that--you
sidle casually down to Roswell with old man Taylor and see that he puts
preemption papers on the Butterbowl. Selah!"

III

The first knowledge Lake had of the state of affairs was when the Steam
Pitchfork punchers informally extended to him the right hand of
fellowship (hitherto withheld) under the impression that he had
generously abstained from pushing home his vantage. When, in the
mid-flood of his unaccountable popularity, the situation dawned upon
him, he wisely held his peace. He was a victim of the accomplished fact.
Taylor had already filed his preemption. So Lake reaped volunteer
harvest of good-will, bearing his honors in graceful silence.

On Lake's next trip to Escondido, Pappy Sanders laid aside his marked
official hauteur. Lake stayed several days, praised the rosebush and Ma
Sanders' cookery, and indulged in much leisurely converse with Pappy.
Thereafter he had a private conference with Stratton, the Register of
the Roswell Land Office. His suspicion fell quite naturally on Felix,
and on Jeff as accessory during the fact.

So it was that, when Jeff and Leo took in Roswell fair (where Jeff won a
near-prize at the roping match), Hobart, the United States Marshal,
came to their room. After introducing himself he said:

"Mr. Stratton would like to see you, Mr. Bransford."

"Why, that's all right!" said Jeff genially. "Some of my very great
grandfolks was Dacotahs and I've got my name in 'Who's Sioux'--but I'm
not proud! Trot him around. Exactly who is Stratton, anyhow?"

"He's the Register of the Land Office--and he wants to see you there on
very particular business. I'd go if I was you," said the Marshal
significantly.

"Oh, that way!" said Jeff. "Is this an arrest, or do you just give me
this _in_-vite semi-officiously?"

"You accuse yourself, sir. Were you expecting arrest? That sounds like a
bad conscience."

"Don't you worry about my conscience. 'If I've ever done anything I'm
sorry for I'm glad of it.' Now this Stratton party--is he some aged and
venerable? 'Cause, if he is,