“I’m afraid, Mr. Claymore,” he said, “that all is not as it should be in this matter.”
“Pooh!” returned Claymore easily; “you mustn’t mind the howling of such a wild man. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He won’t hurt you.”
“Oh! that isn’t what I fear. I don’t like to hear a man talk like that, because it shows that he believes he has been wronged. There might be some truth in it. If so, I should be the first to make it right.”
“But there isn’t anything wrong. It was all a plain matter of business. Hank Low had a lot of land that he couldn’t do anything with. We asked him his price for it, we had a dicker with him, and he sold. What could be simpler, or fairer, than that?”
Instead of answering, the clergyman looked over the ground where they were standing. It was a level, but rocky, spot between high hills.[{4}]
No house was in sight, but a half mile farther up the valley was Hank Low’s cabin.
Three miles in the other direction was the small village of Mason Creek, and some miles beyond that the city of Denver.
This spot where they stood had been part of Hank Low’s farm.
He had had a hard struggle trying to make a living out of his land, and had not succeeded very well, and there was a heavy mortgage to be lifted, besides.
One day a couple of men came to Mason Creek and spent a good deal of time tramping about the country.