“The money’s gone!” he shouted.
Dropping the cinch he was buckling, his brother dashed into the hut where the displaced boughs, the uncovered hole, and empty can proved the truth of the announcement.
“Every cent we had in the world,” he sobbed.
“Not quite. We kept out some, you know. Twenty dollars, to be exact. That’s enough to pay the cost of filing. Let’s show these robbers we can do a thing or two. Good! They must have overlooked our pistols, though they’ve helped themselves to our rifles.”
Angered at the robbery and warning, the young homesteaders hurriedly buckled on their holsters, put some cartridges in their pockets, selected some food from the pile of their belongings in front of their door, and, finishing the saddling of their ponies, galloped away.
Having learned from Andy that the way to Waterville was the road leading past Petersen’s section, they lost no time in going down the brook and were soon racing along the highway.
With their mounts dripping lather, the young homesteaders finally drew rein in front of a building bearing a sign “Land Office.”
“We want to file on a claim,” said Phil, when they had entered.
“Got the money?” demanded a man on the front of whose desk was the word “Registrar.”
“Yes—that is, how much is it?” stammered the boy, amazed at such a question.