“He stole ’em, those coal lands.  He jugged ’em thro’ Land Office records with false entries.”  The telegraph man had lowered his voice.

“We don’t call ’em stolen when it’s been the making of the Valley.”

“No, because the Smelter is a sacred cow mustn’t be touched for the sake of the grease.”

“Then, there was nothing doing in lumber; big fellows wouldn’t come in and develop.  Well, Moyese got ’em the timber tracts for a song.  Other men couldn’t, wouldn’t or didn’t dare.  He delivered the goods—­”

“The courage of the highwayman,” commented the wire editor with a puff.

“We don’t call it that when it helps the Valley,” corrected the handy man.

“No, it’s another sacred bovine; mustn’t be touched for fear of the axle grease.  See?  I’ve got a list of ’em—­public lands, through freights, water power, smelter, lumber deals,” the telegraph man opened his table drawer and held out a scrawled list.  “If you call that delivering the goods, I call it filling the barrel.  What’s the other factor for success?”

“Not bucking into a buzz saw.  The world is mostly made of barkers and builders.  You fellows spend all the time barking.  Then you wonder there’s nothing to show in the way of a building.”

The telegraph wires began to click and the girl operator came in with some tissue sheets.

“Fight in Frisco—­that goes,” commented the telegraph editor dashing in the “ands” and “buts” and the punctuation.  He stuck the slip on the printer’s hook.  “Wedding in Newport—­”

“That goes,” laughed the handy man, “There’s no sacred cow about that.”

The telegraph man wrote headings for the dispatches and stuck them on the hook for the printer’s boy.

“Speaking of sacred cows, it isn’t exactly cows, but it’s in the stock line all right—­what do you know about that business last night up on Rim Rocks?  Stage driver has been blazing it all round town—­”

“Stage driver’s a liar,” emphatically declared Brydges.

“Been trying to get the news for an hour; the wires are cut.  Can’t get ’em by phone.  Think I’ll send a man up to-night with a photographer.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t,” drawled Bat sleepily.  “It isn’t worth it.  I’ve just come down.  Whole row’s over.  You can’t get a dub in the Valley to open his mouth.  Same old gag we’ve used for the last ten years, ‘heavily armed band of masked men,’ ‘scene like a butcher’s shambles,’ and that guy of a sheriff ‘scouring the hills for the miscreants.’  I’ll bet he’s under his bed scared blue.”

“Who did it?”

“Same old gang of outside grazers, drovers who skipped the State line.  I succeeded in getting their names after a good deal of trouble.”

“You did, did you?  Then give us a stick about it, will you?  Date it special at the Rim Rocks!  Trouble is, if I do send a man up, business office will kick at the expense account; for there’s nothing in it; and that kind of news hurts the Valley.”