"
"How's that?"
"I was goin' to write. But I ain't no hand to write about business.
Writin' po'try is bad enough. You recollec' them papers and that dust
Billy tried to find, out there by the track?"
"Yes."
"Well, I found it all. Since the company is workin' the claim now and I
didn't have so much to do, I got to thinkin' of them papers. I went out
there, paced her off down the track, guessed at about where it was, and
found 'em."
"Found them?"
"Yes, sir. There was that little bag almost atop of the sand, account of
wind and rain. Then there was a record of the claim, our claim. It's
been filed on before. We made a mistake and filed on the wrong section.
When me and Billy went to file, I noticed the clerk said something about
havin' neighbors on the claim next, but I was scared of answerin' too
many questions, so I give him some cigars and beat it."
"Who owns our claim, then?"
"That's the queer part of it. You know the guy we give the water to--the
one that died out there. _He_ owns the claim, or he did. It belongs by
rights to his girl now. His name was Andre Lacharme."
"Lacharme!"
"Yes, Louise's pa. Recollect your boss tellin' us as how the Rose Girl's
daddy was missin' out in the Mojave? Then they was a letter--old and
'most wore out--from Walter Stone himself.
Pages:
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313