Billy waited until the car came to a stop. A heavy, broad-shouldered individual sat at the wheel, a man with gray hair and a square-cut, have-my-own-way sort of jaw.
“Magee?” he asked. He looked at the cowboy out of cold gray eyes.
“Yes, sir. That’s what my ma called me.”
“Ahem.” The big man sparred. “You received my letter last winter, I believe?”
“Sure did,” said Billy. “And I answered it. Nothin’ doin’. She’s my homestead and I’m going to keep her.”
The other nodded. “Are you sure?” He pulled out a check book. “I haven’t much time. Here’s one thousand dollars, if you relinquish—or, if you don’t wish to relinquish, we’ll call it a payment of one thousand dollars on the quarter section—against the day that you get your title.”
Billy Magee shook his head.
“Nope. She’s a pretty fair piece of land. Besides”—he waved his hand toward the range—“take a look at that.”
The other bit his lip.
“Where’s your water? You can’t use my creeks. I’ve served notice to my foremen to keep you out. So far I have been lenient, but I don’t propose to give you a bit more now than the law allows. You can’t raise stock without water. I own the creeks. You can’t drill a well because your water level is too deep, here, for successful pumping.”