“Cavalry patrol bringing out some sooner they’ve picked up,” Carver stated, as he watched the group approach. “There’s likely two hundred odd hiding out down there to take their pick of the claims when the run sets in.”
All through the preceding night there had been irregular spurts of rifle shots at various points along the line as troopers opened up on sooners that had watched their chance to slip through the cordon of guards and make a run for it.
“Did you hear the shooting last night?” she asked, and Carver nodded.
“Tumbleweeds drifting through,” he said. “Most of them urged on just for the love of taking chances—others on the chance of making a few dollars by selling out.”
“Are there many like that?” she asked. “I mean ones who are doing it for the sake of a few dollars instead of with the idea of living on their claims.”
“Thousands,” Carver testified. “Every puncher that ever rode in the Strip will stake a claim and there’s not one out of ten that would live on the place a week. Most of them are going in for the sport of making the run.”
“And they’ll stake the best tracts,” she said.
“They will,” Carver agreed. “They know the country and are equipped to get there first. But there’s such a scattering few compared to the size of the country that their filings all combined won’t make a pin-prick on the map.”
“And where will you file?” she inquired.
“The Half Diamond H,” he said. “That’s my destination. Every ranch down there stands just as she was left when the cowmen vacated the Strip. Owners are privileged to move their improvements off but they’re mostly sod buildings. The parties filing on them will be saved the trouble and expense of erecting new sod huts.”