“So Nyland is still at large, eh?” he remarked, when Dale had finished.  “Why not set a gunman on him?”

Dale scowled.  “There ain’t a gunman in this section that would take a chance on Nyland—­he’s lightning!” Dale cursed.  “Besides, there ain’t no use in goin’ after Nyland’s place unless we can get the Double A.”

“Then there wasn’t any use of going after it yesterday, or today, as you did,” said the other.  “Unless,” he added, looking intently at Dale, “the sister has been on your mind some.”

Dale reddened.

“I don’t mind admittin’ she is,” he grinned.

“Look out, Dale,” warned the other; “there’s danger there.  Many a big project has been ruined by men dragging a woman into it.  You have no right to jeopardize this thing with a love affair.  Peggy Nyland is desirable to a man of your intense passion, I suppose; but this project is bigger than any woman’s love!”

“Bah!” sneered Dale.  “I can ‘tend to her without losin’ sight of the main object.”

“All right, then,” laughed the other.  “The success of this thing depends largely on you.  We can’t do a thing with the Legislature; these sagebrush fools are adamant on the question of water-rights, They won’t restrict an owner’s right and title to possession of all the water on his land.

“And he can dam the stream as much as he pleases, providing he don’t cut down the supply that normally flows to his neighbors; and the gorge doesn’t supply any water to the basin, so that Bransford would be justified in directing the gorge stream.

“In other words, old Bransford’s title to the land that the gorge runs through is unassailable.  There is only one way to get at him, and that is in some way to get possession of the title.”

“That’s tied up tighter than blazes,” said Dale.  “Record and all are clear.  An’ there ain’t no judge we can get at.  But if young Bransford hadn’t come——­”

“Yes,” smiled Silverthorn.  “It’s too bad.  We had a man, ready to come on at the word, to impersonate young Bransford.  He would have stayed here long enough to get a clear title to the Double A, and then he would have turned it over to us for a consideration.  It rather looks as though we are stumped, eh?”

Dale frowned.  Then he got up, went to a drawer in the desk before which Silverthorn sat, and drew out a letter—­the letter young Bransford had written to his father about a year before.

“We’ve still got a chance,” he told Silverthorn.  And then he told the latter of his suspicions about Sanderson.

Silverthorn’s eyes gleamed.  “That’s possible,” he said, “but how are you going to prove it?”

“There’s a way,” returned Dale.  He went to the door, and shouted the names of two men, standing in the doorway until they came—­the two men who had accompanied him that morning.  He spoke to them, briefly: 

“You’re ridin’ straight to Tucson as fast as your cayuses can take you.  You ought to make it in a week.  I’ll give you that long.  Find Gary Miller.  Tell him I sent you, an’ find out what he knows about young Bill Bransford.  Then hit the breeze back.  If it takes you more than two weeks I’ll knock your damned heads off!”