took no stock in Don Manuel's assurance that the land was worthless, any
more than he gave weight to his warning that a personal visit to the
scene would be dangerous if the settlers believed he came to interfere
with their rights. For many turbulent years Dick Gordon had held his own
in a frontier community where untamed enemies had passed him daily with
hate in their hearts. He was not going to let the sulky resentment of a
few shepherds interfere with his course now.

A message flashed back to a little town in Kentucky that afternoon. It
was of the regulation ten-words length, and this was the body of it:

Send immediately, by express, little brown leather trunk in garret.

The signature at the bottom of it was "Richard Gordon."




CHAPTER III

FISHERMAN'S LUCK


A fisherman was whipping the stream of the Rio Chama.

In his creel were a dozen trout, for the speckled beauties had been
rising to the fly that skipped across the top of the riffles as
naturally as life. He wore waders, gray flannel shirt, and khaki coat.
As he worked up the stream he was oftener in its swirling waters than on
the shore. But just now the fish were no longer striking.