Budd had no need to glance through his front door. The invasion had descended upon him a week ago in the form of broken down farm wagons, old-time schooners, buggies, pack mules and solitary riders on every shade and size of horse. Mostly it was a family affair; the clearing in front of the store was dotted with tents and lean-tos and stray baggage and fires. Men clustered in groups, speaking guardedly or else in heated discussion, while the women bustled about the flames and prepared the night meal. Even as the storekeeper scanned the group he heard the creaking of fresh wagons through the trees. They came from every corner of the State and from adjoining States; rough people and refined, all eager to share in a new prospect of comfort and prosperity. The cause of this boom was a mere rumor, a thin, unsubstantiated report that the government, long idle in this part of central Oregon, was about to dam a distant river in the hills and construct great main canals to irrigate the land. Budd shook his head solemnly. It was, he repeated to himself, only a rumor--and rumors had ugly ways of dying out, never again to be heard. Nevertheless these hopeful people came, camped in his clearing, while preliminary scouts were sent out to find land that had not been homesteaded, and then vanished through the jack pines, bound for their new El Dorado, somewhere beyond in the open country. “Reminds me of the old days in Oklahoma,” said Budd. “Dang me ef there wasn’t a rush fer the Indian lands. I can still hear the bugles sound for the sign we could cross in. By golly! Reckon I was younger then.” “Ne’m mind that sad extemporizin’,” interrupted the sheriff. “Jest foller my ideas a spell. You see that red-headed young man with the scowl on his face? I want you should keep an eye on him, Budd. Folks have been complainin’ about losin’ money and valuables from their wagons and sleepin’ places durin’ the night. Well, now, he’s a reckless-lookin’ son of a gun, and he’s been hangin’ round these diggin’s fer a week, hain’t he?” Budd chuckled. “Huh, it’s a girl that keep him glued here, not money.” “Powerful suspicious lookin’ to me, Dave. You keep an eye on him. I been sizin’ the whole crowd up, and he’s the only one I’d figger to watch.” “All right, all right,” agreed the storekeeper, turning morose again. “Got to be a cussed bloodhound, have I?” The red-headed young man evidently had something on his mind; he fished through his pockets and fumbled among the few effects piled on the ground by his saddle; rising empty-handed, he turned toward the store. The sheriff clapped on his sombrero and started out. “I’ll vamose, Dave, and let you alone until next week.” He climbed into the saddle as the young man swung to the porch. The sheriff’s horse, catching sight of a skittering sheet of white paper, reared and snorted, plunged against a porch column, knocked a board off with his feet, and drummed out of the clearing.