Tug knew that his chief had a much wider experience in engineering than he. This project must have been studied by him from every angle, all difficulties considered, all technical problems solved. Yet the fact stood in the way like a Rock of Gibraltar that water flows downhill and not up. He shrugged his shoulders and stepped out from under. Merrick had told him with cool finality that it was none of his business. That was true. He had done his full duty when he reported the matter to the chief. He turned his attention to running the ditch line through the gorge. To save time he moved his outfit to Elk Creek. A chuck wagon, mule teams, scrapers, and necessary supplies followed the little group of surveyors. Within a week the sound of blasting echoed from wall to wall of the ravine. Two men rode up the defile to the engineer’s camp one sunny morning. Jones, in flannel shirt, corduroys, and high laced boots, directed operations as the workmen set out on the day’s work. One of the visitors to the camp was a long, black-bearded, fierce-eyed man in blue overalls. The other was a mild little fellow in years well past middle age. The dark man introduced himself rudely. “What the blue blazes you doing here? This is my homestead. You trying to jump my claim?” The engineer met this brusque attack suavely. During the past weeks, as he had slowly fought his way back toward self-respect, the defiance and the bitter irony had disappeared from his manner. He was recovering the poise that characterizes the really able man of affairs when he is subjected to annoyance and worry. “You are Mr. Donald Black?” he asked. “I’m him. An’ I’m here to say that no man--I don’t care if he is backed by a big corporation--can jump my property an’ get away with it.” “I don’t think we have any intention of prejudicing your rights, Mr. Black,” the engineer answered. “Of course, I’m only an employee. Mr. Merrick is the man you ought to see. You’ll find him up at the dam.” “I’m servin’ notice on you right here an’ now to get off my land. I’m givin’ you till night to get yore whole outfit outa here. I ain’t a-going to see anybody. Understand? You’ve got me in one word short an’ sweet--git.” The dried-up little man beside Black let out a cracked cackle of laughter. “Seems like that should ought to be plain enough,” he murmured. Tug looked at the wrinkled cattleman. He guessed that this was Jake Prowers, of whose sinister reputation rumors had reached him. But it was to Black he spoke. “Don’t you think, perhaps, you had better see a lawyer? There’s always a legal way to straighten out difficulties that--” “Lawyer!” exploded Black with an oath. “Listen, fellow! I don’t aim for to see no lawyer. You’d like fine to tie this up in the courts while you went right on building yore end gates an’ runnin’ yore ditches on my land. No, sir. Cattle was here first, an’ we don’t aim to let you chase us off. See?”