Blackwell was a short man but heavy-set, with a curly black beard and eyes that were curiously heavy-lidded. As he leaned over the windlass and looked down upon us he reminded me of one of the fairy-tale ogres.
"Hello, Bob," he said, speaking to Barrett, whom he knew. "Quit the banking business, have you?"
"Taking a bit of a lay-off," Barrett returned easily. "We all have to get out and dig in the ground, sooner or later."
Blackwell laughed good-naturedly.
"You'll get enough of it up here before you've gone very far," he predicted. "Just the same, you might have come by the office and asked permission before you began to work off your digging fit on Lawrenceburg property."
"We're not on Lawrenceburg," said Barrett cheerfully.
"Oh, yes, you are," was the equally cheerful rejoinder. "Our ground runs pretty well up to the head of the gulch. I'm not trying to run you off, you know. If you feel like digging a well, it's all right: it amuses you, and it doesn't hurt us any."
Barrett pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the hole.
"Let's get this thing straight, Blackwell," he argued. "You've got three claims in this gulch, but we are not on any one of them. Look at your maps when you go back to the office."
"I know the maps well enough. We cover everything up to the head of the gulch, just as I say, joining with the original Lawrenceburg locations on the other side of the spur." Then, suddenly: "Who's your friend?"