His companion answered with the candour he had expected. “The one or two folks I’ve spoken to don’t seem anxious to consider it. It’s mighty hard for a small man to launch a project.”
“As a rule, it is.”
“Then,” Drayton continued, “the idea’s not my own. It was a mineral prospector—a relative of mine—who struck the valley on his last trip. He’s an old man, and he came down played out and sick. Now I guess he’s slowly dying.” He paused a moment. “Would you like to see him?”
“I’ll go with you now, if it’s convenient,” Vane replied.
They crossed the city to where a row of squalid frame shacks stood on its outskirts. In one which they entered, a gaunt man, with grizzled hair lay upon a rickety bed. A glance showed Vane that the man was very frail. Drayton, who explained the cause of his visit, motioned Vane to sit down, and the prospector fixed his eyes upon the latter.
“I’ve heard of you. You’re the man who located the Clermont—and put the project through,” he said. “You had the luck. I’ve been among the ranges half my life, and you can see how much I’ve made of it. When I struck a claim worth anything, somebody else got the money.”
Vane had reasons for believing that this was not an uncommon experience; but the man went on again: “Well, you look straight, and I’ve got to take some chances; it’s my last stake. We’ll get down to business; I’ll tell you about that spruce.”
He spoke for a few minutes, and then asked abruptly: “What are you going to offer?”
Vane had not been certain that he would make any offer at all; but, as had befallen him before, the swift decision flashed instinctively into his mind.
“If I find that the timber and its location come up to your account of it, I’ll pay you so many dollars down—whatever we can agree upon—when I get my lease from the land office,” he said. “Then I’ll make another equal payment the day we start the mill. But I don’t bind myself to record the timber or put up a mill, unless I’m convinced it’s worth while.”