And he had other advantages.  The pack, as he cynically thought of them, would have started at the Clark ranch and the cabin.  He would get to them, of course, but he meant to start on the outside of the circle and work in.

“Been here long?” he asked the clerk at the desk, after a leisurely meal.

The clerk grinned.

“I came here two years ago.  I never saw Jud Clark.  To get to the Clark place take the road north out of the town and keep straight about eight miles.  The road’s good now.  You fellows have worn it smooth.”

“Must have written that down and learned it off,” Bassett said admiringly.  “What the devil’s the Clark place?  And why should I go there?  Unless,” he added, “they serve a decent meal.”

“Sorry.”  The clerk looked at him sharply, was satisfied, and picked up a pen.  “You’ll hear the story if you stay around here any time.  Anything I can do for you?”

“Yes.  Fire the cook,” Bassett said, and moved away.

He spent the evening in going over his notes and outlining a campaign, and the next day he stumbled on a bit of luck.  His elderly chambermaid had lived in and around the town for years.

“Ever hear of any Livingstones in these parts?” he asked.

“Why, yes.  There used to be a Livingstone ranch at Dry River,” she said, pausing with her carpet sweeper, and looking at him.  “It wasn’t much of a place.  Although you can’t tell these days.  I sold sixty acres eight years ago for two thousand dollars, and the folks that bought it are getting a thousand a day out of it.”

She sighed.  She had touched the hem of fortune’s garment and passed on; for some opportunity knocked but faintly, and for others it burst open the door and forced its way in.

“I’d be a millionaire now if I’d held on,” she said somberly.  That day Bassett engaged a car by the day, he to drive it himself and return it in good condition, the garage to furnish tires.

“I’d just like to say one thing,” the owner said, as he tried the gears.  “I don’t know where you’re going, and it’s not exactly my business.  Here in the oil country, where they’re cutting each other’s throats for new leases, we let a man alone.  But if you’ve any idea of taking that car by the back road to the old fire station where Jud Clark’s supposed to have spent the winter, I’ll just say this:  we’ve had two stuck up there for a week, and the only way I see to get them back is a cyclone.”

“I’m going to Dry River,” Bassett said shortly.

“Dry River’s right, if you’re looking for oil!  Go easy on the brakes, old man.  We need ’em in our business.”

Dry River was a small settlement away from the railroad.  It consisted of two intersecting unpaved streets, a dozen or so houses, a closed and empty saloon and two general stores.  He chose one at random and found that the old Livingstone place had been sold ten years ago, on the death of its owner, Henry Livingstone.