"What's wrong, Dad?" The man's son joined them.... He was a big strapping lad, with sandy hair and very bright skin.
"These people are looking for their homestead," the man with the jacket said. "They think this is their site."
"You think wrong, Mister," the youth said. "We double checked this location three times before we made camp.... Right?" He turned to the older man for confirmation.
Whiting nodded. "The boy's right. This land is ours. We've got a deed to prove it."
"So have I," Claude said frowning. "It's right here in the luggage.... Wait. I'll show you...." He bent over, unzipping the knapsack and rummaged around till he produced the manila envelope that held the title papers.
Bruce Whiting examined them carefully; first the neat rows of fine print, then the dozen glossy color-photos which had been taken on the property from strategic angles. He shook his head and turned to his son.
"Get our titles, Frank," he said.
The boy left, returning within seconds with a similar manila envelope. Bruce Whiting opened it and pushed a handful of papers at Claude.
While his wife and son watched, Claude Marshall went through the papers methodically.... They were all there. All the measurements; looking like duplicates, backed up by photos that had apparently been developed from the same negatives.... He glanced at his wife.
"Something's wrong, Joan," he said. "Mr. Whiting has a claim on this land too. It's just like ours.... Exactly!"