“How about that stream?”

“Nobody said the stream was a natural one.  And the water exists, no matter where it comes from.  You can’t impress an Eastern farmer with a pump proposition:  that’s a matter of education.  They come to see its value after they’ve tried it.”

“But your—­“.

“I told you I didn’t like the methods.  I won’t have anything to do with the dirty work, and Oldham knows it.”

“Why all the bluff, then?” asked Bob.

“There are thousands of real estate firms in Los Angeles trying to sell millions of acres,” said Selwyn, “and this is about the only concern that succeeds in colonizing on a large scale.  Oldham developed this system, and it seems to work.”

“The law’ll get him some day.”

“I think not,” replied Selwyn.  “You may find him close to the edge of the law, but he never steps over.  He’s a mighty bright business man, and he’s made a heap of money.”

When nearing the Arcade depot, Oldham himself stepped forward.

“Stopping in California long?” he asked, with some approach to geniality.

“Permanently, I think,” replied Bob.

“You are going to manufacture your timber?”

Bob looked up astonished.

“You’re the Orde interested in Granite County timber, aren’t you?”

“I’m employed by Welton, that’s all,” said Bob.  “He owns the timber.  But how did you know I am with Welton?” he asked.

“With Welton!” echoed Oldham.  “Oh, yes—­well, I heard from Michigan business acquaintances you were with him.  Welton’s lands are in Granite County?”

“Yes,” said Bob.

“Well,” said Oldham vaguely, “I hope you have enjoyed your little outing.”  He turned away.

“Now, how the deuce should anybody know about me, or that I am with Welton, or take the trouble to write about it?”

He mulled over this for some time.  For lack of a better reason, he ascribed to his former football prominence the fact that Oldham’s Michigan correspondent had thought him worth mention.  Yet that seemed absurdly inadequate.

PART THREE

I

Two weeks later a light buckboard bearing Welton and Bob dashed in the early morning across the plains, wormed its way ingeniously through gaps in the foothills, and slowed to a walk as it felt the grades of the first long low slopes.  The air was warm with the sun imprisoned in the pockets of the hills.  High chaparral, scrub oaks, and scattered, unkempt digger pines threw their thicket up to the very right of way.  It was in general dense, almost impenetrable, yet it had a way of breaking unexpectedly into spacious parks, into broad natural pastures, into bold, rocky points prophetic of the mountains yet to come.  Every once in a while the road drew one side to pause at a cabin nestling among fruit trees, bowered beneath