Barrett introduced me briefly as Jim Bertrand, late of the Colorado Midland construction force. Blackwell nodded and looked toward the shack.
"Any more of you?" he asked.
"One more; a fellow named Gifford. He's asleep just now."
Blackwell straightened up.
"It's all right, as I say, Bob. If you three tenderfoots want to come up here and play at digging a hole, it's no skin off of us. When you get tired we'll buy the lumber in your shack and what dynamite you happen to have left, just to save your hauling it away."
"Thanks," said Barrett; "we'll remember that. We haven't much money now, but we'll probably have more—or less—when we quit."
"Less it is," chuckled the square-shouldered boss of the Lawrenceburg. "Go to it and work off your little mining fever. But if you should happen to find anything—which you won't, up here—just remember that I've given you legal notice, with your partner here as a witness, that you're on Lawrenceburg ground."
Barrett's grin was a good match for Blackwell's chuckle.
"We're going to sink fifty feet; that's about as far as our present capital will carry us. As to the ownership of the ground, we needn't quarrel about that at this stage of the game. You've given us notice; and you've also given us permission to amuse ourselves if we want to. We'll call it a stand-off."
After the superintendent had gone I ventured to point out to my drill-mate that the matter of ownership had been left rather indefinite, after all.