"Hoh!" said the old man.
And the Sheriff's tent was not the only one seen on the way back to the Ridge. Where the Pass widened to the Valley above the Sheriff's homestead, they came on a huge miner's tent boarded half way up as for winter residence, with eight tow-headed half-clad urchins thumb in mouth staring out from the open mosquito wire door. There was a smell of onions and frying pork.
"What! a homestead, here, Wayland? D' y'r homesteaders farm on th' perpendicular, or the level; an' what will they grow on these rocks?"
The Ranger had reined in his pony and was running his glance up the precipice face for the posts marking the bounds.
"What do they grow? Water-power, I guess! I'm looking for the lines. The fellow has his posts in for a wire fence; he couldn't get a hundred and sixty acres on the level; and the posts run up the face, by George he's blanketed a cool square mile, mostly on the up and down."
"Your territory, Wayland?"
The Ranger had turned looking back up the Pass.
"The trail marks the lower bounds of the N. F., but this fellow's line runs clear up above the trail. If you bunch this fellow's claim with the Sheriff's, they've got forty miles of the Pass corked up: no way to bring the timber above down but by the River; and they've got the River; and if possession is nine points in the law, they've got our Forest road besides. We'll have to give that fellow warning and if he doesn't move, break his fence down."
"Gutt dae." A big burly Swede came forward from the miner's tent.
"Are you one of the new settlers?" asked Wayland.