“Here’s your stuff,” said Keith, “over here on the East Branch—­thirty thousand acres.  Here’s mine, on the West Branch—­close to thirty thousand acres.  We don’t touch anywhere.”

“But our locations put us in the driver’s seat so far as the timber up here is concerned.  We’re in control.  There are sixty thousand acres of mighty good spruce in that triangle between us, and it’s as good as ours.  It’s there for us when we need it.  All we got to do is reach out our hand for it.  The folks that own it haven’t got the money to go ahead with it.  Pretty sweet for us—­with sixty thousand acres in the palm of our hand and not a cent invested in it.”

“Sweet is the word.  But what if somebody grabbed it off?”

“Who’ll grab?”

“I think we ought to tie it up somehow.  If we owned the whole thing we could work a heap more profitably.  Now we’ve got to divide camps, or else cut off one slice or the other at a time.  If we owned the whole thing we could make our cut where it would be easiest handled—­and leave the rest till things develop.”

“It’s safe.  And we can make it mighty unpleasant for anybody who comes ramming into this region in a small way.  Which reminds me of that Baines—­our friend Scattergood.  Are we going to let him get away with that dam and boom company we made him a present of?”

“I can’t see ourselves digging down for sixty cents a thousand for driving our logs—­contracts or no contracts.”

“Maybe we can buy him off.”

“Hanged if I’ll do that—­we’ll chase him off.  Look here—­he’s got to handle our logs.  If he can’t handle them we’ve got a right to put on our own crew and drive them down—­and charge back to him what it costs us.  Get the idea?”

“Not exactly.”

“We deliver the logs as specified in the spring.  Let him start his drive.  Then, I figure, he’ll have some trouble with his men, and most likely men he don’t have trouble with will get into a row with lumberjacks going out of camp.  See?  Men of his that we can’t handle we’ll pitch into the river.  Then we’ll take charge with our men and make the drive.  On top of that we’ll sue Scattergood for thirty or forty cents a thousand—­extra cost we’ve been put to by his inability to handle the drive.  That’ll put a crimp in him—­and if we keep after him hot and heavy it won’t take long to drive him out of the valley.”

“Don’t believe he’s dangerous, anyhow.  That last deal was bullhead luck.”

“Yes, but he’s stirring around.  We don’t want anybody poking in.  There’s a heap of money in this valley for us, if we can keep it to ourselves, and the sooner the idea gets abroad that it isn’t healthful to butt in, the better.”

“Guess you’re right.”

If Scattergood could have heard this conversation perhaps he would not have been so gayly partaking of the softer joys of life.  For that is what Scattergood was doing.  He had polished up his buggy, put his new harness on his horse, and was driving out to make a social call.  Not only that, but it was a social call upon a lady!