In his customary way of vigor, the horseman had begun a semi-legal inquiry the first day succeeding the rush.  He interviewed Lawrence, the Government representative, since Culver’s removal from the scene.  Lawrence was prepared for the visit.  He expressed his regrets at the flight Van’s fortunes had taken.  Bostwick had come, he said, with authority from Washington, ordering the new survey.  No expectation had been entertained, he was sure, that the old, “somewhat imaginary” and “decidedly vague” reservation line would be disturbed, or that any notable properties would be involved.  Naturally, after the line was run, establishing the inclusion of the “Laughing Water” claim, and much other ground, in the reservation tract, Mr. Bostwick had been justified in summary action.  It was the law of human kind to reach for all coveted things.

Van listened in patience to the exposition of the case.  He studied the maps and data as he might have studied the laws of Confucius written in their native tongue.  The thing looked convincing.  It was not at all incredible or unique.  It bore Government sanction, if not its trademark.  And granting that the reservation tract did actually extend so far as to lap across the “Laughing Water” claim, the right of an entrant to locate the ground and oust all previous trespassers after the legal opening was undeniable.

Much of the natural fighting spirit, welded by nature into Van’s being, had been sickened into inactivity by the blow succeeding blow received at the hands of Beth Kent.  The case against her was complete.

Her letter to her brother was sufficient in itself.  The need for its delivery in person to her brother he thought undoubtedly a ruse to get himself out of the way.  If she had not planned with the others to warn the convict, Barger, of his trip, she had certainly loaned her money to Bostwick for his needs—­and her letter contained the threat, “I will repay!”

At the end of three days of dulling disgust and helplessness, Van and his “family” were camping in a tent above the town of Goldite, on a hill.  They were all but penniless:  they had no occupation, no hope.  They were down once more at the ladder’s bottom rung, depleted in spirit, less young than formerly, and with no idea of which way to turn.

Van meant to fight, if the slightest excuse could be discovered.  His partners would back him, with their lives.  But he and they, as they looked their prospects fairly in the face, found themselves utterly disarmed.  Except for the credit, extended by friends of Van, starvation might have lurked about their tent.  All delayed seeking for outside work while the prospect of putting up a fight to regain their property held forth a dim glimmer of hope.

The last of Van’s money went to meet a debt—­such a debt as he would not disregard.  The account was rendered by a cutter of stone, who had carved upon a marble post the single legend: