"But I see a sod shack over in the draw," returned Crook. "They have apparently called themselves establishing a residence on the land."
"Yes; but let me tell you," said Spaight. "I can get you this piece of land—I can win it for you through contest. I know a thing or two, and I believe when we let the fellow know that we've got him dead to right, he'll weaken, and sell it to you for a song."
"Well," said Crook, thoughtfully, "we'll drive back to town and consult Duval about it."
On the way they drove by the homesteaders near and held subtle conversations with many, always in the end ascertaining how many times the people had been seen on the claim they had just left.
When they returned to the town in the valley, and retired into the private office of the little bank, Spaight went for Duval, a lawyer, who came forthwith. He was a tall, lean creature who attracted attention by his unusual height and leanness. He, also, was one of the "left overs." He was told of the beautiful homestead, and that the claimant had been seen only a few times there, and of the proposition to contest it.
"Who holds the place, did you say?" inquired Duval in his deep, droll voice, crossing his legs judiciously.
"Why, a nigger woman," said Spaight.
"A Negro woman?"
"Yes, what do you think of that?" pursued Spaight, his eyes widening. "I told Crook that if he worked a bluff good and right he could more than likely scare them out. A nigger in a white man's country!"
Crook smiled; Duval was thoughtful.