One of the men who had spoken broke in again.
“Boys,” he said, “when Saunders makes a proposition of that kind it’s because he sees how he’s going to get something out of it. But for all that, I guess it’s sound advice he’s giving you.”
There was a little consultation among the men, and then one of them asked a question that evidently met with the favor of his companions.
“How are we going to live in the meanwhile?”
“That’s quite easy,” said the storekeeper, with a smile. “I’ll supply you with pork and flour, drills and giant-powder, at bed-rock figure, while you get in your assessment work, and while you live on your ranches afterward until you make a deal. All I ask is that you won’t sell until the Grenfell’s floated, and that you’ll give us first call then. It’s a cold fact that if I had the money I’d buy you all up now.”
There was truth in his last assurance, which was at the same time a highly diplomatic one, for it occurred to most of the audience that if there was anything to be made by waiting they might as well have it as anybody else; and after a further consultation they gave him their promise. Then they trooped away to prepare their dinner, and Saunders turned to Devine with a contented smile.
“I guess,” he said, “we’ve headed those company men right off this lode, and, what’s most as much to the purpose, the boys will have to trade with me if anybody comes up and starts another store. Just now I’d feel quite happy if I knew how Jim was running things.”
He was soon to learn, for he had scarcely risen from a meal of salt pork, somewhat blackened in the frying-pan, and grindstone bread indifferently baked by Devine, when Jim and several strangers plodded into camp. He was very ragged, and apparently very weary, but he displayed no diffidence in accounting for his presence.
“It was kind of lonesome down there, and I figured I’d come along,” he said.
Saunders gazed at him for a moment in mute indignation before his feelings found relief in words.