“Looks like you,” he admitted. “And that’s Dave, sure enough. But that thar pictur don’t give you no rights here. Dave took this place—bought it off me, he did. He never told me nothin’ about you. I homesteaded the place first. I built this here barn myself. I sold it to Dave, and now he’s deserted it I’m goin’ to have it back. Who’s goin’ to stop me?”
“There’s plenty more land just as good and better, all around here,” said Tom. “What do you and Harrison want this for?”
“Dunno what Harrison wants,” McLeod muttered, with a crafty glance. “I want it ’cause it’s mine by rights.”
“Quarry rights?” said Tom. “Gravel rights, eh? Is that the idea? They’re using lots of gravel at Oakley now, and you could bring it down from here cheaper than hauling it.”
McLeod looked a little dazed for an instant. Then he cast a swift, cunning glance at Tom’s face.
“Say,” he said, “can’t we split on this? Mebbe I can steer Harrison off, and—”
“No, I won’t split anything,” returned Tom curtly.
“Well, if you won’t, then you’ve got to clear out of here. If you don’t, we’ll run you off.”
“See here!” Tom exclaimed. “You just run off yourself. If it comes to that, I’ve got a rifle, too. I’ve got a right here as the Jacksons’ representative, and I’m going to stay; and if there’s any gravel or anything else sold off this place I’ll sell it myself. Now you get out and tell Harrison what I said.”
McLeod glowered at him for a moment, shifting his rifle under his arm. Tom’s own weapon was ten feet away. Then the woodsman shrugged his shoulders slightly, turned on his heel, and departed without another word.