"They've had no equity in that land for years. The bank just let them stay on."

"They can move on over the hill."

Jerry nodded. "Maybe somebody ought to suggest that to them."

"Don't look at me," Caruso said. "Those old coots ain't been near my shop for years."

When the chuckles died, MacAllister, the druggist, voiced the thought that rested unspoken on all their minds. "I wonder if that fellow realizes what a worthless piece of land he's bought."

"He looked it over." This was Hammond, of the bank.

"'Course, you didn't try to talk him out of it!"

"Would you have?" Hammond retorted indignantly.

Henderson jabbed the air with his cigar. "I think he was a coal miner, back East. Saved up his money to get on the land."

"I think he's a gypsy," Caruso said.

"You ought to know," Tipton, the grocer, laughed. Caruso got fined for his reply, and with the tinkle of coins in the luncheon club kitty the men dispersed.

Joe Merklos' relatives arrived that night. Henderson, who told Jerry Bronson about it, had made an early morning delivery of feed nearby, and driven on to take a look at Merklos' purchase. From the ridge, he viewed Dark Valley's three miles of width and six or so of length. Figures were moving about the gaunt and windowless farm buildings. At least one plow was in operation, and the good blue friendliness of smoke arose here and there.

"Looked like a lot of people, Jerry. But you know—I didn't see any cars or trucks around."

Jerry's blue eyes crinkled. Human nature didn't like puzzles any more than it liked strangers. He returned to the tedious civil case he was working on. About three o'clock, he decided he was tired and bored enough to call it a day. He got into his car and headed for Dark Valley.

Aside from his curiosity, he thought he might talk to the two old squatters at the far end. The Carvers were independent and truculent. Now that Joe Merklos' relatives had arrived in full force, there was danger of a clash.

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