e over and
I can show you no end of land worth a gold mine any time you are ready.
But make it soon. Land's goin' faster here'n you Delaware fellers think,
and"--in a lower voice--"Doc Carey's drivin' over it all the time, and
that Jew of a Jacobs ain't in business here on account of no lung trouble,
and his hatred of saloons is somethin' pisen."

They finished their meal in silence, for they had come to an
understanding. The afternoon was too short and cold for real estate
business to be brisk, and nobody in Carey's Crossing noted that the front
window of Darley Champer's little office was covered with a newspaper
blind all the rest of that day, nor did anybody pay attention to the
whereabouts of the stranger--Mr. Thomas Smith, of Wilmington,
Delaware--during this same time. Nobody, except John Jacobs, of the Jacobs
House, who gained his knowledge mostly by instinct; never, at least, by
rude inquiry. He had been up on the roof helping Bo Peep to fasten the
sign over the door which the wind had torn loose. From this place he
could see above the newspaper screen of the window across the street that
Champers and Smith were in a tremendously earnest consultation. He would
have thought nothing of it had not Champers chanced to sight him on the
roof and immediately readjusted the newspaper blind to prevent
observation.

"I'll offer to sell Darley a window shade cheap tomorrow and see how he
bites," and the little Jewish merchant smiled shrewdly at the thought.

* * * * *

Out on the trail that day the snow lay deeper to the westward, hiding the
wagon ruts. The dead sunflower stalks made only a faint black edging along
the white monotony of the way and sometimes on bleak swells there were no
markings at all. Some distance from Carey's Crossing a much heavier
snowfall, covering a wide swath, under which the trails were entirely
lost, had wandered in zigzag lines down from the northwest.

In the early afternoon Dr. Horace Carey had started west on the surest
horse in the Stewart-Jacobs livery stable, taking his old-fashioned
saddle-bags with him through force of habit, and by mid-afternoon was
floundering in the edge of this deeper snowfall.

Nature must have meant Horace Carey for the plains. He was of medium
height, compactly built, without an ounce of unnecessary weight. The
well-rounded form took away all hint of spareness, while it did not
destroy the promise of endurance. H