At the Chateau Royal, one of those Canadian masterpieces of hotel construction several score of rooms too large for Strathconna's present demands, he found quarters for himself. His "John Childress" was registered as inconspicuously as possible and his address set down as "Harve, Montana," the last place in the United States in which he had spent any time on the present investigation.
Despite his modesty, he did not escape the local boosters, particularly the realtors who had everything to offer from corner lots to factory sites and "suburban estates with homes built to live." It was nearly impossible for him to persuade them that he was not an investor. Almost was he sorry that he had not risked acceptance of Ivan MacDonald's invitation to dine with the "family," a bid that marked the end of their ride together. At last, in self-defence, he went to a motion-picture theater, the key of his hotel room in his pocket. On return he made his entry so inconspicuous that the cards of four boosters who were awaiting him in the lobby were not delivered until he came down to breakfast in the morning.
Ten o'clock found Childress at the local office of the Maple Leaf Midland Railroad, a substantial building constructed of a stone that glistened like galena and came from one of the quarries along the line of the road that held an enormous land-grant acreage. Here, again, Childress encountered the "metropolitan" idea. In an ornate foyer an attendant, caparisoned with all the glory of an Oriental diplomat, assured him that they—doubtless meaning his company—had everything in stock from ready-made farms to cow ranges. Childress was directed to the "Department of Natural Resources" on the second floor.
Request brought forth a detailed map of the southern portion of the province. After some comparison between the map and the notes which his memorandum book held, he located the Fire Weed Range, and a particular section bearing the railroad's ownership mark. This adjoined the extensive holdings of the Rafter A Ranch, touched on its western side the Gallegher Range and was not too far from the border for the purpose the sergeant had in view. That this parcel had remained unclaimed by either the Andress or the Gallegher interests seemed surprising and the best piece of professional luck that had come to Childress since his return from gathering Arctic "weather reports" and Eskimo murderers in the subnormal temperature of Frozen Solid Land.
"Guess that six hundred and forty acres ought to answer," Childress mused, after an inspection of certain other vacant sections. "At least, I'll be in the way of the somebodies who are raising all this mysterious rustling hell. Wonder why the Andress or Gallegher interests didn't pick it up? I wonder?"
He gained the attention of a land agent behind the glass-topped counter and found him at once courteously attentive on remarking that he had heard the railroad was offering ready-made farms.
"Greatest idea ever worked out for the settler without considerable capital," declared the agent, with that assured belief that is seldom found except in realtors and missionaries. "Suppose you're situated so that you cannot wait to erect your home and farm buildings even with the help of the two thousand dollar loan that is offered on our other proposition. And suppose again that it is necessary for you to farm and make a living practically the day you start in western Canada. Then you do want one of our ready-mades—a four-room dwelling, a barn for eight head of stock, well dug and pump installed, farm fenced, and gates in place, fifty acres turned over by tractor plow and twenty years to pay." The agent beamed upon him.
John Childress did not lack response, seeming at once to catch some of the other's enthusiasm. "That sure does sound attractive," he said.
"You've had agricultural experience?"
"Might admit that," returned Childress, remembering his experiments with wheat, potatoes, onions and the ever-hardy radish at one of his last posts in the sub-Arctic.