"That country's goin' to blossom!" declared the Drifter. "An' the guy which gets in on the ground floor is goin' to make a clean-up! They's a range there--the Double A--which is right in the middle of things. A guy named Bransford owns her--an' Bransford's on his last legs. He's due to pass out _pronto_, or I'm a gopher! He's got a daughter there--Mary--which is a pippin, an' no mistake! But she's sure got a job on her hands, if the ol' man croaks. "They's a boy, somewheres, which ain't no good I've heard, an' if the girl hangs on she's due for an uphill climb. She'll have a fight on her hands too, with Alva Dale--a big rough devil of a man with a greedy eye on the whole country--an' the girl, too, I reckon--if my eyes is any good. I've seen him look at her--oh, man! If she was any relation to me I'd climb Dale's frame sure as shootin'!" There had been more--the Drifter told a complete story. And Sanderson had assimilated it without letting the other know he had been affected. Nor had he mentioned to Burroughs--his employer--a word concerning the real reason for his desire to make a change. Not until he had written to Bransford, and received a reply, did he acquaint Burroughs with his decision to leave. As a matter of fact, Sanderson had delayed his leave-taking for more than a month after receiving Bransford's letter, being reluctant, now that his opportunity had come, to sever those relations that, he now realized, had been decidedly pleasant. "I'm sure next to what's eatin' you," Burroughs told him on the day Sanderson asked for his "time." "You're yearnin' for a change. It's a thing that gets hold of a man's soul--if he's got one. They ain't no fightin' it. I'm sure appreciatin' what you've done for me, an' if you decide to come back any time, you'll find me a-welcomin' you with open arms, as the sayin' is. You've got a bunch of coin comin'--three thousand. I'm addin' a thousand to that--makin' her good measure. That'll help you to start something." Sanderson started northeastward without any illusions. A product of the Far Southwest, where the ability to live depended upon those natural, protective instincts and impulses which civilization frowns upon, Sanderson was grimly confident of his accomplishments--which were to draw a gun as quickly as any other man had ever drawn one, to shoot as fast and as accurately as the next man--or a little faster and more accurately; to be alert and self-contained, to talk as little as possible; to listen well, and to deal fairly with his fellow-men. That philosophy had served Sanderson well. It had made him feared and respected throughout Arizona; it had earned him the sobriquet "Square"--a title which he valued.