Grant, sitting in the saddle of the big plow, thoughtfully filled his
pipe.

"Of course," he said, "it wasn't a coincidence that Beamish came over
soon after the fellow turned up for the horses. It would have been
worth while buying the bull if you had let them go--especially as I
believe it's right about a friend of his wanting one--and nobody could
have blamed you for selling. The fact is, your position counts. The
bluff would make a handy place for a depot, and, while there's nobody
else near, you command the trails to it and the reservation. Nobody
could get by from the settlement without being seen, unless they made a
big round, if you watched out."

"I'm beginning to understand. What you say implies that they're doing
a good trade."

"That's so," Grant assented. "I wouldn't have believed it was so big
before Hardie put me on the track and I began to look around. But you
want to remember that what you're doing may cost you something. I'm
your nearest neighbor, you're running stock that are often out of
sight, and you're up against a determined crowd."

"It's true," George admitted. "Still, I can't back out."

Grant cast a keen, approving glance at him. George sat quietly in his
saddle with a smile on his brown face; his pose was easy but virile:
there was a stamp of refinement and old country breeding upon him. His
eyes were suggestively steady; his skin was clear; he looked forceful
in an unemphatic manner. The farmer was to some extent prejudiced
against the type, but he could make exceptions. He had liked Lansing