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will have to take care of him.”
    â€œI’ll see that he does,” Rand volunteered. “The old fellow’s got grub enough to last ten days.” He paused to refill his pipe. “No need to tell you to say nothin’ about this over there,” he went on presently. “What you aimin’ to do, Jim?”
    â€œI’m going to strike Dan Crockett for a job.”
    â€œYeah?” In the inflection of his voice there was deep understanding rather than surprise. “Gunnin’ for trouble, eh?”
    â€œNo, just hoping I can steady the boat a little. The old man won’t back up an inch, now that the courts have upheld him. He can do about as he pleases in that country. With Creiger and his deputies to help him, he’ll take possession of his water.”
    â€œAnd when old Slick-ear puts on the pressure, something happens!” Graham summed up tersely. “The next thing he’ll do will be to move in enough men and stock to worry that Squaw Valley crowd into doin’ somethin’ foolish.”
    â€œI expect he’s moved in already.” Montana’s expression was as grave as his words. “Mr. Stall never wastes any time.”
    That night he camped on Skull Creek, inside of the old reservation and several miles north of where the creek flows into the Malheur.
    Imagine a great inverted capital V with the Malheur Range forming the eastern line and the Junipers the western. Picture the Malheur River, rising in the Junipers and flowing to the north and east, so as to close the great triangle, and you have Squaw Valley, with the reservation occupying the lower part of the triangle. To the north, extending into the mountains, you would find the eight and nine-thousand acre outfits that were fighting for existence.
    There were three creeks of major importance in the valley. From east to west: Skull Creek, Big Powder Creek and Owl Creek. Eventually, all found their way to the Malheur.
    Montana rolled his blankets at dawn. The valley was wide there, not less than twenty miles from range to range. The scene was a familiar one to him. Beyond the willows and aspens that choked the creek bottom, the native bluejoint grew high and green, even though the year was a dry one. Because sheep had never ranged there, no ugly patches of burr or broncho grass marred that blue-green expanse.
    At that hour, the rolling Junipers to the west looked like great tufts of pink cotton. The Malheurs, nearer and more formidable, too, rose sheer and forbidding, varnished-green patches of mountain mahogany marking the spots where the snow lay late in the spring.
    Skull Creek purled over the rocks at Montana’s feet, as garrulous as an old woman, as he waited for the coffee to boil.
    â€œJust as sassy as usual,” he said. “Think you’d get tired, jawing away like that night and day.”
    He had not finished breakfast when he caught the sound of breaking brush up the creek. Presently, two mounted troopers rode into view.
    â€œSaw your smoke a long way off,” said one. “We thought you might be the party we’re lookin’ for. But God knows you ain’t an Injun.”
    From their conversation Jim surmised that they had made only a perfunctory search for Plenty Eagles’ father. He invited them to share his flapjacks, but they said no.
    â€œGoin’ back to McDermitt, the younger of the two explained. “Want to get started before the sun begins to climb.”
    After they had gone on, Montana saddled his horse and followed the creek north. The afternoon was well along before he reached Dan Crockett’s Box C ranch.
    Dan, together with his cousins, the Gaults and the Morrows, had been the first to run cattle in the upper valley. He was thrifty and a hard worker, as were his grown sons. Comparatively, he had done well, but the Box C was a far cry from anyone of the big Bar S ranches.
    Dan was repairing a wagon-box as Montana rode into the