"Here are your powders, then. Do you go and locate the above-mentioned and described Felix, and impart to him, under the strict seal of secrecy, these tidings, to wit, namely: That you have a presentiment, almost amounting to conviction, that the Butterbowl contest is decided in Lake's favor, but that your further presentiments is that said Lake will not use his prior right. If Taylor should get such a decision from the Land Office don't let him or Felix say a word to no one. If Mr. B. Body should ask, tell 'em 'twas a map, or land laws, or something. Moreover, said Felix he is not to stab, cut, pierce or otherwise mutilate said Lake, nor to wickedly, maliciously, feloniously and unlawfully fire at or upon the person of said Lake with any rifle, pistol, musket or gun, the same being then and there loaded with powder and with balls, shots, bullets or slugs of lead or other metal. You see to that, personal. I'd go to him myself, but he don't know me well enough to have confidence in my divinations. "You promulgate these prophecies as your sole personal device and construction--_sabe?_ Then, thirty days after Lake signs a receipt for his decision--and you will take steps to inform yourself of that--you sidle casually down to Roswell with old man Taylor and see that he puts preemption papers on the Butterbowl. Selah!" III The first knowledge Lake had of the state of affairs was when the Steam Pitchfork punchers informally extended to him the right hand of fellowship (hitherto withheld) under the impression that he had generously abstained from pushing home his vantage. When, in the mid-flood of his unaccountable popularity, the situation dawned upon him, he wisely held his peace. He was a victim of the accomplished fact. Taylor had already filed his preemption. So Lake reaped volunteer harvest of good-will, bearing his honors in graceful silence. On Lake's next trip to Escondido, Pappy Sanders laid aside his marked official hauteur. Lake stayed several days, praised the rosebush and Ma Sanders' cookery, and indulged in much leisurely converse with Pappy. Thereafter he had a private conference with Stratton, the Register of the Roswell Land Office. His suspicion fell quite naturally on Felix, and on Jeff as accessory during the fact. So it was that, when Jeff and Leo took in Roswell fair (where Jeff won a near-prize at the roping match), Hobart, the United States Marshal, came to their room. After introducing himself he said: "Mr. Stratton would like to see you, Mr. Bransford." "Why, that's all right!" said Jeff genially. "Some of my very great grandfolks was Dacotahs and I've got my name in 'Who's Sioux'--but I'm not proud! Trot him around. Exactly who is Stratton, anyhow?" "He's the Register of the Land Office--and he wants to see you there on very particular business. I'd go if I was you," said the Marshal significantly. "Oh, that way!" said Jeff. "Is this an arrest, or do you just give me this _in_-vite semi-officiously?"