Being-good walkers, it did not take the boys long to reach the Spell tract of land. To make sure that they had found the right spot, they asked an old teamster who was at the roadside mending a harness.
"Yes, that's Lorimer Spell's ground—or at least it was his ground before he was killed. There is the old shack just as he left it."
The boys walked over to the house, which stood among some low bushes. It was a dilapidated structure, and had evidently been out of repair for several years. Most of the windows were gone, and the front door stood wide open. As was to be expected, the four rooms the house contained were empty save for some straw on the floor and a pile of half-burnt sticks on the open hearth.
"Some thieves must have come along and taken whatever there was of furniture," observed Jack.
"Yes, and somebody has been using it for a place to bunk in," added Fred. "But I don't believe they have been here within the last few days," he added, with a look at the ashes on the hearth.
From the house the boys proceeded to look around the farm, or ranch, if such it might be called. It was irregular in shape, one corner running over a hill and down towards a small brook. Here, to their surprise, they saw a pile of oil-drilling machinery, and a number of posts had been set up. On one of the posts was a placard reading:
The Carson Davenport Claim. Keep off.
"What do you know about this!" cried Jack, his eyes blazing.
"Let's knock the sign down," suggested Fred quickly.
"No, we won't do that—at least not yet, Fred. We'll wait until my father comes with those papers from Wichita Falls."