In fact, the surroundings of Forlorn River, except on the river side, reminded Belding of the mushroom growth of a newly discovered mining camp.  Tents were everywhere; adobe shacks were in all stages of construction; rough clapboard houses were going up.  The latest of this work was new and surprising to Belding, all because he was a busy man, with no chance to hear village gossip.  When he was directed to the headquarters of the Chase Mining Company he went thither in slow-growing wrath.

He came to a big tent with a huge canvas fly stretched in front, under which sat several men in their shirt sleeves.  They were talking and smoking.

“My name’s Belding.  I want to see this Mr. Chase,” said Belding, gruffly.

Slow-witted as Belding was, and absorbed in his own feelings, he yet saw plainly that his advent was disturbing to these men.  They looked alarmed, exchanged glances, and then quickly turned to him.  One of them, a tall, rugged man with sharp face and shrewd eyes and white hair, got up and offered his hand.

“I’m Chase, senior,” he said.  “My son Radford Chase is here somewhere.  You’re Belding, the line inspector, I take it?  I meant to call on you.”

He seemed a rough-and-ready, loud-spoken man, withal cordial enough.

“Yes, I’m the inspector,” replied Belding, ignoring the proffered hand, “and I’d like to know what in the hell you mean by taking up land claims—­staked ground that belongs to my rangers?”

“Land claims?” slowly echoed Chase, studying his man.  “We’re taking up only unclaimed land.”

“That’s a lie.  You couldn’t miss the stakes.”

“Well, Mr. Belding, as to that, I think my men did run across some staked ground.  But we recognize only squatters.  If your rangers think they’ve got property just because they drove a few stakes in the ground they’re much mistaken.  A squatter has to build a house and live on his land so long, according to law, before he owns it.”

This argument was unanswerable, and Belding knew it.

“According to law!” exclaimed Belding.  “Then you own up; you’ve jumped our claims.”

“Mr. Belding, I’m a plain business man.  I come along.  I see a good opening.  Nobody seems to have tenable grants.  I stake out claims, locate squatters, start to build.  It seems to me your rangers have overlooked certain precautions.  That’s unfortunate for them.  I’m prepared to hold my claim and to back all the squatters who work for me.  If you don’t like it you can carry the matter to Tucson.  The law will uphold me.”

“The law?  Say, on this southwest border we haven’t any law except a man’s word and a gun.”

“Then you’ll find United States law has come along with Ben Chase,” replied the other, snapping his fingers.  He was still smooth, outspoken, but his mask had fallen.

“You’re not a Westerner?” queried Belding.

“No, I’m from Illinois.”