“Say, Stanley says there's four beside the fellows we saw,” Jack announced, rather breathlessly, for he had been running through the loose, heavy soil of the garden to overtake them. “They've located twenty acres apiece, he says--staked 'em out in the night and stuck up their notices--and everyone's going to STICK. They're all going to put in grizzlies and mine the whole thing, he told dad. He just the same as accused dad right out of covering up valuable mineral land on purpose. And he says the law's all on their side.” He leaned hard against the stable, and drew his fingers across his forehead, white as a girl's when he pushed back his hat. “Baumberger,” he said cheerlessly, “was still talking injunction when I left, but--” He flung out his hand contemptuously. “I wish dad wasn't so--” began Wally moodily, and let it go at that. Good Indian threw up his head with that peculiar tightening of lips which meant much in the way of emotion. “He'll listen to Baumberger, and he'll lose the ranch listening,” he stated distinctly. “If there's anything to do, we've got to do it.” “We can run 'em off--maybe,” suggested Jack, his fighting instincts steadied by the vivid memory of four rifles held by four men, who looked thoroughly capable of using them. “This isn't a case of apple-stealing,” Good Indian quelled sharply, and got his rope from his saddle with the manner of a man who has definitely made up his mind. “What CAN we do, then?” Wally demanded impatiently. “Not a thing at present.” Good Indian started for the little pasture, where Keno was feeding and switching methodically at the flies. “You fellows can do more by doing nothing to-day than if you killed off the whole bunch.” He came back in a few minutes with his horse, and found the two still moodily discussing the thing. He glanced at them casually, and went about the business of saddling. “Where you going?” asked Wally abruptly, when Grant was looping up the end of his latigo. “Just scouting around a little,” was the unsatisfactory reply he got, and he scowled as Good Indian rode away. CHAPTER XV. SQUAW-TALK-FAR-OFF HEAP SMART Good Indian spoke briefly with the good-looking young squaw, who had a shy glance for him when he came up; afterward he took hold of his hat by the brim, and ducked through the low opening of a wikiup which she smilingly pointed out to him. “Howdy, Peppajee? How you foot?” he asked, when his unaccustomed eyes discerned the old fellow lying back against the farther wall. “Huh! Him heap sick all time.” Having his injury thus brought afresh to his notice, Peppajee reached down with his hands, and moved the foot carefully to a new position.