The pictures stirred memories of the acrid smoke of hill camp-fires, of nights under a tarp with the rain beating down on him, and still others of a road herd bawling for water, of winter camps when the ropes were frozen stiff and the snow slid from trees in small avalanches.

At the junction he took the stage for Malapi.  Already he could see that he was going into a new world, one altogether different from that he had last seen here.  These men were not cattlemen.  They talked the vocabulary of oil.  They had the shrewd, keen look of the driller and the wildcatter.  They were full of nervous energy that oozed out in constant conversation.

“Jackpot Number Three lost a string o’ tools yesterday.  While they’re fishin’, Steelman’ll be drillin’ hell-a-mile.  You got to sit up all night to beat that Coal Oil Johnny,” one wrinkled little man said.

A big man in boots laced over corduroy trousers nodded.  “He’s smooth as a pump plunger, and he sure has luck.  He can buy up a dry hole any old time and it’ll be a gusher in a week.  He’ll bust Em Crawford high and dry before he finishes with him.  Em had ought to ‘a’ stuck to cattle.  That’s one game he knows from hoof to hide.”

“Sure.  Em’s got no business in oil.  Say, do you know when they’re expectin’ Shiloh Number Two in?”

“She’s into the sand now, but still dry as a cork leg.  That’s liable to put a crimp in Em’s bank roll, don’t you reckon?”

“Yep.  Old Man Hard Luck’s campin’ on his trail sure enough.  The banks’ll be shakin’ their heads at his paper soon.”

The stage had stopped to take on a mailsack.  Now it started again, and the rest of the talk was lost to Dave.  But he had heard enough to guess that the old feud between Crawford and Steelman had taken on a new phase, one in which his friend was likely to get the worst of it.

At Malapi Dave descended from the stage into a town he hardly knew.  It had the same wide main street, but the business section extended five blocks instead of one.  Everywhere oil dominated the place.  Hotels, restaurants, and hardware stores jostled saloons and gambling-houses.  Tents had been set up in vacant lots beside frame buildings, and in them stores, rooming-houses, and lunch-counters were doing business.  Everybody was in a hurry.  The street was filled with men who had to sleep with one eye open lest they miss the news of some new discovery.

The town was having growing-pains.  One contractor was putting down sidewalks in the same street where another laid sewer pipe and a third put in telephone poles.  A branch line of a trans-continental railroad was moving across the desert to tap the new oil field.  Houses rose overnight.  Mule teams jingled in and out freighting supplies to Malapi and from there to the fields.  On all sides were rustle, energy, and optimism, signs of the new West in the making.

Up the street a team of half-broken broncos came on the gallop, weaving among the traffic with a certainty that showed a skilled pair of hands at the reins.  From the buckboard stepped lightly a straight-backed, well-muscled young fellow.  He let out a moment later a surprised shout of welcome and fell upon Sanders with two brown fists.