"Guess who drug us in," Jerry urged.
"I've no idea," said Pierce.
"Big Lars Anderson."
"Big Lars of El Dorado?"
"He's the party. He was just drunk enough to risk breakin' through. When he found who we was—well, he gave us the town; he made us a present of Dawson and all points north, together with the lands, premises, privileges, and hereditaments appurtenant thereto. I still got a kind of a hangover headache and have to take soda after my meals."
"Lars was a sheepman when we knew him," Tom explained. "Jerry and I purloined him from some prominent cow-gentlemen who had him all decorated up ready to hang, and he hasn't forgotten it. He got everybody full the night we landed, and wound up by buying all the fresh eggs in camp. Forty dozen. We had 'em fried. He's a prince with his money."
"He owns more property than anybody," said pierce.
"Right! And he gave us a 'lay.'"
Phillips' eyes opened. "A lay? On El Dorado?" he queried, in frank amazement.
"No. Hunker. He says it's a good creek. We're lookin' for a pardner."