Cameron mused. “If they’ve only been hyar an hour or two I doubt they’d stake corners. They ain’t possessed with that much patience.” Doubt swayed the guide. He bit morosely into his tobacco. “But thar on the land. That’s plenty. Possession’s all ten p’ints o’ the law, by gee. I’d be willin’ to drive ’em off, but that’d git to Oregon City in no time and whar’d you be in law? I reckon we’ve lost the race. Waal, you foller me down the valley a week or so and I’ll find you some land.” Cameron shook his head and stared at the billowing mist. Out of that pall emerged a dull echo of voices. “There they are,” he murmured. “But they ain’t the kind to set in one place very long. It ain’t in their blood.” He turned to Follett. “Reckon I’ll deal a hand in this game. We’re a-goin’ to scrap fer what we want. Drive yore wagon down the hillside ontil you strike the fog line. Jest let ’em see the wheels movin’ and hear the team grunt. Then we’ll keep goin’ on around the rim until we strike a draw somewhars and drop out o’ sight.” “What fer?” inquired Warner with a dubious expression. “Strategy,” replied Cameron. Follett spoke to the team and set the brakes. Down the wagon slid, with the younger man trotting in advance. As they descended, the fog thinned, and the ground below came into view until Cameron drew up his horse in plain sight of a gleaming green bowl’s bottom with a creek brawling through it, half hidden by alders. By these alders flamed a fire. There were the Emorys. Cameron wheeled his horse back into the fog and motioned for Follett to turn. The movement put the whole group out of sight once more, but the screaming brakes echoed from one side of the bowl to the other, as did Cameron’s suddenly raised voice. “Beyond the draw!” he called. “We’re on the wrong side of the hill! Into that big clearin’!” Back to them came Hank Emory’s exultant shout. “Go on,” directed Cameron in a lower tone. “Let ’em shout. They’ll be doin’ some figgerin’ in a while.” And so they were. Hank Emory watched the wagon snake back to the fog-hidden upper regions until there was left only the intermittent sight of a wheel rolling mysteriously, independently along, or the queer spectacle of eight dismembered oxen legs trampling forward. Then these signs too were lost. But the noise was plain enough, receding toward a not far distant head of the valley where another low pass apparently gave entrance into another stretch of open land. Emory heard Cameron’s “Beyond the draw!” and muttered a doubtful curse into his beard. “Whar’s that fool goin’ now? This are the place.” “Mebbe it ain’t the only good land in these parts,” offered one of the brothers. “Or mebbe that drunk fool give us wrong directions arter all,” added the other.