Driving to a bank, Clifford deposited the unsealed bags of gold within the safe of that institution, while his two companions were looking for a hotel; then, next, young Warlow wrote a long and carefully worded dispatch to the American minister at Mexico, inquiring for information concerning Bruce Walraven and his wife, Herr Von Brunn and his wife Labella, and also the status of Monteluma, with a request for an immediate reply, that was no doubt facilitated by the information which the banker telegraphed, at Clifford's request, for the privilege of reference.
Without difficulty Clifford perfected the title to his homestead before the land officers. Then, in a fever of restlessness, our hero passed the intervening time until Monday morning, when he received a dispatch from the minister at the City of Mexico, stating that no trace could be found of either of the parties inquired for; that the old mansion of Monteluma had been confiscated during the "French invasion," but the estate was held by a wealthy foreign nobleman; that the agent of that nobleman was absent at Durango, so no further particulars could be learned until his return, etc.
"This is the last evidence in the proof that Mora is heiress to all the new-found treasure," mentally exclaimed young Warlow as he hurried into the land-office and elbowed his way through the dense throng of spectators to the desk, where the receiver was gloomily saying, "that the sale would be a failure, unless the agent of Lord Scholeigh arrived, which was improbable now, owing to the storm near St. Louis, that had prostrated the wires and stopped travel."
"Proceed with the sale, if you please; I would like to bid in a tract," said Clifford quietly. Then, after several tracts in small bodies had been purchased by the bystanders, he began to bid in section after section at fifty cents an acre; and when the amount ran up to ten, twenty, and twenty-three thousand acres, the crowd began to grow curious, and jostled each other to get a better view of the man who could bid in so quietly a six-mile square tract without faltering; but the grave-faced and gray-clad young ranchman, with no ornament about him save a gold buckle to the collar of his brown flannel shirt, kept steadily on, without any opposition, perfectly heedless of the scrutiny.
"He is a son of Colonel Warlow on the Cottonwood, who fell heir to a cool million from California, the other day," said a man, in a tone just loud enough to reach Clifford's ears, and the receiver wondered what the handsome young man found to smile at as he bid in the last section of sixty-nine thousand acres; but how should he know that Clifford was amused at the remark, thinking that the small legacy had grown, like the story of the "five black crows."
"Young man," said the receiver, in a tone of arrogant suspicion. "I shall insist on some proof of your ability to pay such a large sum before I proceed further."
"Very well, sir," replied Clifford, blowing a wreath of cigar-smoke into the official's face as he coolly handed him his certificate of deposit, subject to check of seventy thousand dollars, given Saturday evening after the banker had counted the gold. Then, young Warlow began to realize the prestige which wealth gives, as he saw the look of insolence on the officer's face quickly give place to respectful wonder, as he proceeded at once with the auction.
When the figures had reached a hundred thousand acres the crowd gave way to cheers, which swelled to a perfect tumult when six townships—nearly one hundred and thirty-nine thousand acres—were knocked down to the young bidder, who refused to bid any further, and the sale closed.
Clifford wrote out a check for the sum of sixty-nine thousand one hundred and twenty dollars, and received the receiver's certificate, which entitled the purchaser to a deed for the tract. As the officer closed the sale and the papers changed hands in the bank, a noted "wheat-king" hurried in and told Clifford that the New York agent of Lord Scholeigh was coming on a special train, fast as steam could carry him, and requested our young friend to await the arrival, as the agent had been detained by storms and wash-outs while en route to the sale; and the kingly real estate agent further intimated that a fine profit on the purchase could be realized if Clifford was willing to sell.
So our hero consented to remain, and when the agent arrived he was almost stunned by the offer of double the price he had paid; the agent offering to take the entire tract at one dollar an acre. After some deliberation Clifford consummated a sale of seventy-five thousand acres, keeping a township, six miles square, for himself, and forty thousand acres for his father; and finding that he had seventy-five thousand dollars left. "Equal," the wheat-king said, "to the Dutchman's profit of ten per schent."