“Is it?” asked Martin.

“Isn’t it?” inquired Bob.

“Well, some says not.  Of course they couldn’t be expected to drive all those cattle back to the plains, so they’re just naturally spraddled out grazing over this lower country.”

“Why, what becomes of the winter feed?” cried Bob aghast, well aware that in these lower altitudes the season’s growth was nearly finished and the ripening about to begin.

“That’s just it,” said Martin; “where, oh, where?”

“Can’t anything be done?” repeated Bob, with some show of indignation.

“What?  This is all government land.  The mountain boys ain’t got any real exclusive rights there.  It’s public property.  The regulations are pretty clear about preference being given to the small owner, and the local man; but that’s up to Plant.”

“It’ll come pretty hard on some of the boys, if they keep on eating off their winter feed and their summer feed too,” hazarded Bob.

“It’ll drive ’em out of business,” said Martin.  “It’ll do more; it’ll close out settlement in this country.  There ain’t nothing doing but cattle, and if the small cattle business is closed up, the permanent settlement closes up too.  There’s only lumber and power and such left; and they don’t mean settlement.  That’s what the Government is supposed to look out for.”

“Government!” said Bob with contempt.

“Well, now, there’s a few good ones, even at that,” stated Martin argumentively.  “There’s old John, and Ross Fletcher, and one or two more that are on the square.  It may be these little grafters have got theirs coming yet.  Now and then an inspector comes along.  He looks over the books old Hen Plant or the next fellow has fixed up; asks a few questions about trails and such; writes out a nice little recommend on his pocket typewriter, and moves on.  And if there’s a roar from some of these little fellows, why it gets lost.  Some clerk nails it, and sends it to Mr. Inspector with a blue question mark on it; and Mr. Inspector passes it on to Mr. Supervisor for explanation; and Mr. Supervisor’s strong holt is explanations.  There you are!  But it only needs one inspector who inspects to knock over the whole apple-cart.  Once get by your clerk to your chief, and you got it.”

Whether Martin made this prediction in a spirit of hope and a full knowledge, or whether his shot in the air merely chanced to hit the mark, it would be impossible to say.  As a matter of fact within the month appeared Ashley Thorne, an inspector who inspected.

By this time all the cattle, both of the plainsmen and the mountaineers, had gone back.  The mill had commenced its season’s operations.  After the routine of work had been well established, Bob had descended to attend to certain grading of the lumber for a special sale of uppers.  Thus he found himself on the scene.

Ashley Thorne was driven in.  He arrived late in the afternoon.  Plant with his coat on, and a jovial expression illuminating his fat face, held out both hands in greeting as the vehicle came to a stop by Martin’s barn.  The Inspector leaped quickly to the ground.  He was seen to be a man between thirty and forty, compactly built, alert in movement.  He had a square face, aggressive gray eyes, and wore a small moustache clipped at the line of the lips.