more show stackin' up agin Jefferson Worth than two-bits worth o'
ice has in hell. Accordin' to my notion hit's this here same
financierin' game that's a-ruinin' the West. The cattle range is
about all gone now. If they keeps it up we won't be no better out
here than some o' them places I've heard about back East."

"'Tis a danged ignorant savage ye are, like the rest av yer thribe,
wid yer talk av ruinin' the West. Fwhat wud this counthry be without
money? 'Tis thim same financiers that have brung ye the railroads,
an' the cities, an' the schools, an' the churches, an' all the other
blessin's an' joys of civilization that ye've got to take whither ye
likes ut or not. Look at the Seer, now. Fwhat could a man like him--
an engineer, mind ye--fwhat could the Seer do widout the men wid
money to back him?"

The Irishman's words were answered by a cheerful "Whoa!" and a crash
of the brakes as Texas Joe brought his team to a stand near the
spring at the head of the canyon. "We camp here," he announced.
"This is the last water we strike until we make it over the Pass to
Mountain Springs on the desert side. Jefferson Worth will be along
with the Seer and his kid most any time now."

A little before dusk the banker, with his two companions, arrived.

"Hello, Pat!" The man who leaped from the buckboard and strode
toward the waiting Irishman was tall and broad, with the head and
chin of a soldier, and the brown eyes of a dreamer. He was dressed
in rough corduroys, blue flannel shirt, laced boots, and Stetson,
and he greeted the burly Irishman as a fellow-laborer.