“I can’t say as I rightly know. I reckon maybe it was Waddy himself that was wrong, and nothin’ the matter with Johnnywater. He got along all right here for awhile--but I guess he got kind of edgey, livin’ alone here so much. He got to kinda imaginin’ he was seein’ things. And along last spring he got to hearin’ ’em. So then he wanted to sell out right away quick.” “Oh.” Gary sounded rather crestfallen. “A nut, hunh? I thought there was something faked about the place itself.” “Yuh-all read what I swore to,” Monty reminded him with a touch of dignity. “I wouldn’t help nobody fake a deal; not even a fellow in the shape Waddy was in. He had his money in here, and he had to git it out before he could leave. At that, he sold out at a loss. This is a right nice little place, Mr. Marshall, for anybody that wants a place like this.” “But you don’t, hunh? Couldn’t you buy the cattle?” Monty shook his head regretfully. “No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t buy out the Walkin’ X brand now at a dime a head, and that’s a fact. Cattle’s away down. I’m just hangin’ on, Mr. Marshall, and that’s the case with every cattle owner in the country. It ain’t my put-in, maybe, but if Johnnywater was mine, I know what I’d do.” “Well, let’s hear it.” “Well, I’d fix things up best I could around here, and hang on to it awhile till times git better. Waddell asked seven thousand at first--and it’d be worth that if there was any market at all for cattle. Up the cañon here a piece, Waddy’s got as pretty a patch of alfalfa as you’d want to look at. And a patch of potatoes that was doing fine, the last I see of ’em. He was aimin’ to put the whole cañon bottom into alfalfa; and that’s worth money in this country, now I’m tellin’ yuh. “Yuh see, Johnnywater’s different from most of these cañons. It’s wider and bigger every way, and it’s got more water. A man could hang on to his cattle, and by kinda pettin’ ’em along through the winter, and herdin’ ’em away from the loco patches in the spring, he could make this a good payin’ investment. That’s what I reckoned this Mr. Connolly aimed to do.” “Pat Connolly bought this place,” said Gary shortly, “because it sounded nice in the ad. It was a nut idea from the start. I’m here to try and fish the five thousand up out of the hole.” “Well, I reckon maybe that same ad would sound good to somebody else,” Monty ventured. But Gary shook his head. Since Patricia made up her mailing lists from the newspapers, Gary emphatically did not want to advertise. They ended by cooking late dinner together, frying six fresh eggs which Gary discovered in the little dugout chicken house. After which Monty Girard unloaded what supplies Gary had brought, smoked a farewell cigarette and drove away to his own camp twenty miles farther on.