The simplest way in the world to make a road across a sandy desert, or to work one that has been used, is to take two telephone poles, fasten them the same distance apart as automobile wheels, hitch on an engine, and drag them lengthwise along the road. This not only grinds down the uneven bumps but packs the sand into a smooth, firm bed for the machine's wheels. That was what they were doing here. Bob stayed back and watched. He did not want to overtake them. The road-breaking outfit crossed the canal directly and headed south by east off into the desert. Bob stopped his machine on the plank bridge, and watched them pull away into the night. Then he gave a long, speculative whistle. "I wonder," he said, "what philanthropist is abroad in the land at one o'clock in the morning?" Rogeen left his machine and followed on foot along the bank of the canal for two miles. The water was flowing freely. There was no sign of immediate need for dredging. Some of the small ranches were getting water to-night. He was glad of that. The Red Butte had finished watering its five-thousand-acre crop a week ago. It would be three days before they would need to begin again. He went back to his machine and drove clear up to the intake from the Valley Irrigation Company's canal. The water was running smoothly all the way. The ditches seemed open, and in fair shape. Some work was needed of course every day; but there was no call for any quick, expensive repairs. [Illustration: "Make it plain to the Chandler girl that this is her last chance to sell before I ruin her crop."] No, Jenkins' call for money was purely for himself and not the water system. The whole thing was robbery. But how could it be prevented? Injunctions by American courts did not extend over here, and Reedy undoubtedly had an understanding with the Mexican authorities. There was nothing for it, thought Bob, but to choose one of two evils: Be robbed of $50,000, or lose five thousand acres of cotton. He set his teeth and started the little car plugging back across the sand toward the American line. CHAPTER XXIV A little after daylight Bob was in El Centro. Jim Crill, always an early riser, was on the porch reading the morning paper. "Come and have breakfast with me," Bob called from the machine. "Got some things to talk over." He handed Crill the letter from the water company. Not a muscle in the old gentleman's face changed as he read, but two spots of red showed at the points of his sharp cheekbones. "If it was your own money in that crop, what would you do?" asked Jim Crill, shortly. "I'd fight him to hell and back." Bob's eyes smoldered. "Then fight him to hell and back," said the old man, shortly. "And if you don't get back, I'll put up a tombstone for you.