Carver glanced at the man’s horse. The animal’s shoulders and flanks were lathered white, as if from a long hard run, but its breathing was smooth and regular and its sides were steady. He glanced at his own mount with its heaving flanks; listened to the animal’s heavy labored breathing. “Beat you by three minutes,” the stranger reasserted. Carver touched the lathered horse with one forefinger, carried the member to his mouth, then spat the soapsuds out. “Yes, you beat me by three days,” he said. “Which is just a shade too broad a margin. Now you step up into the middle of that pony, and start working up a real sweat on him while you’re getting away from here.” The sooner faced him defiantly, a black scowl on his countenance, but he read the same purpose in Carver’s eyes that Freel had discovered in them on the day the marshal had offered to make Molly Lassiter respectable. “I’ll sell out for five hundred,” he offered. “In less than that many seconds you’ll be headed for some place where money can’t follow you,” Carver returned evenly. “You climb that horse and amble.” The sooner swung to the saddle and rode off toward the eastern slope of the valley. It would have availed him little to head down country, for already the bottoms were filled with riders. Those left behind in the last mad dash for the Half Diamond H were now pouring through in hundreds. The side hills that flanked the western edge of the valley were being staked and other riders streamed along their crests. When Carver looked again he saw that the sooner had planted his flag a half-mile up the little spring-creek that trickled past the doors of the ranch house and on down to the parent stream, a mate for the one that flowed on the far side of the ridge where he had sent Bart Lassiter. The sooner’s present holding would be just across the ridge from Bart. But Carver was not concerned over the future actions of the man. If he succeeded in holding a piece of ground which should have gone to some legitimate stampeder it was no affair of his, Carver reflected, and dismissed it from his mind. For thirty minutes the home seekers continued to pour through in gradually diminishing numbers. Most of the wheeled conveyances had dropped out, their owners either having won their goal at some point farther back or given up the race, but a few buckboards rattled past in the wake of the last straggling horseman. Then Carver turned to the work in hand. Those in his immediate vicinity who had made the run for the purpose of realizing a quick turn on their relinquishments were the ones he sought. The cowhands were the logical parties to interview. Bradshaw was sprawled comfortably on the ground on the next quarter section below.