Chan looked into his partner's angry eyes, and his own lips drew in a scowl. "Because there wasn't any use in goin' to Bradleyburg."
Ray was stricken with terror, and his words faltered. "You mean you could tend to it in Snowy Gulch—"
"I don't mean nothing of the kind. Shut up a minute, and I'll tell you about it. A few days ago Steve Morris got a letter addressed to old Hiram Melville—in care of Steve. He opened it and read it, and I heard about it soon as I got into town. There ain't no use of our trying to record that claim."
"For God's sake, why?"
"Because it's already recorded, that's why. We all felt so sure, and we wasn't sure at all. Before old Hiram died he wrote a letter—one of them two letters you heard about, Neilson—and which you wished you'd got hold of. Who that letter was to was an official in Bradleyburg—an old friend of Hiram's—and in it was a description of the claim. This letter Morris got was a notice that his claim was all properly filed in his—Hiram's—name. Whatever formalities was necessary was cut out because the old man had been too sick to make the trip—the recorder got special permission from Victoria. To be plain, I didn't file the claim because it's already filed, and I didn't want to show myself up as a claim-jumper quite as bad as that."
"It's all over town—about the claim?"
"Sure, but there won't be a rush. There's quite a movement over Bradleyburg way for one thing; for another, this is a pocket country, once and for always."
For some seconds thereafter his partners could make no intelligent response. This bitter blow had been anticipated by neither. But Ray was a strong man, and his self-control quickly returned to him.
"You see what that means, don't you?" he asked Neilson.
"It means we've lost!"