“Old Joe is responsible for this,” Carver said, as he rode down toward his friend. “He sorted out the Box T boys that were going to make a filing just to sell it, and such of the old Half Diamond H boys as he could locate. This way it helps us all. They find me a ready buyer and I find them ready sellers, roosting on the very ground I want. Then, too, Joe was thinking of old Nate. Younger lived here for twenty years. With me on the Half Diamond H he can come down and find at least a part of it the same.” Bradshaw grinned as Carver neared him. “What’s your offer?” he demanded. “Speak in big figures now or I’ll stay here and farm this piece myself. Joe tipped us off to swarm in and settle in a flock just below Nate’s old home ranch. Well, what do you bid?” “Two hundred and fifty,” Carver stated. “Too much--but I’ll take it,” said Bradshaw. “Give me a commission and I’ll buy the others out for you anywheres from fifty to a hundred.” “Two hundred and fifty is my flat price to every man,” said Carver. “That’s a good fair figure for both sides. They’ll have to take my notes for it, dated eighteen months ahead at six per cent. They can either wait and live off the interest meantime or discount them at the bank--provided they can locate a banker who’s optimistic enough to make an investment in my paper.” “I’ll ride along with you to see the others,” Bradshaw volunteered. “You all can go and make your filings in the next few days,” Carver said. “Then I’ll furnish each of you with scrip to lay on your quarter. You can deed it over to me when you get your patent.” Two hours later Carver rode across the low ridge in search of Molly Lassiter. “Ever see a prettier nook than this?” he asked, as he dismounted. “I told Bart I had just the place picked out for you and him.” A few trees, somewhat gnarled and stunted--but every such growth is noteworthy in a treeless country, and the black-jack belt did not extend so far north as this--sprouted in a little dent in the base of the ridge, a level floor of rich ground spread out before them. The little creek, fed by side-hill springs, purred merrily along the foot of the slope. “It’s wonderful here,” she agreed. “I’d love it if only Bart would stay here and prove up instead of selling out.” “Maybe we can exert a little pressure and make Bart come to his milk,” said Carver. “This is too good a place to sell out offhand. Wait till I scour a few layers of ashes off my face and we’ll ride up to the ridge so you can see my layout.” His face was still black from the ride across the burned areas and he repaired to the little creek and splashed face and hands in the clear cold water. The big Texan had come part way up the creek to converse with Bart and his voice carried to Carver as he made boastful comments upon his own farsightedness.