ether they had any grounds for contesting a homestead or
not, they could claim they had, and the settler must then either go to
trial to defend his rights or give up the land. It was a serious problem
for the settlers.

So many strangers came and went that the homesteaders seldom identified
these land thieves, but the print shop, set high in the middle of the
plains, was like a ranger's lookout where we could watch their
maneuvers; they traveled in rickety cars or with team and buggy, often
carrying camping equipment with them. By the way they drove or rode back
and forth, we could spot the "spotters."

They often stopped at the settlement for tobacco or a lunch out of the
store--and a little information.

"Whose shack is that off to the southwest?" a man asked one morning,
reading off the claim numbers from a slip of paper. He was a ruddy-faced
man dressed in a baggy checkered suit with a heavy gold watch chain
across the front of his vest and a big flashy ring.

"Belongs to a woman from Missouri," Ida Mary told him. "She had a
neighbor build the shack for her."

"No one living there," he said.

"Oh, yes," Ida Mary improvised rapidly, "she was in here yesterday on
the way to town for furniture. Won't be back until tomorrow night."

He looked doubtful. "Doesn't look to me as though anyone ever slept
there. Not a thing in the shack--no bed."

Ida Mary called out to me, "Edith, didn't you lend that woman some
bedding yesterday?"

"Yes," I declared, "so she could sleep there a few nights before the
deadline."

All our early training in truth-telling was lost in the skirmish, and
sometimes I doubted if the truth was left in us. But there was zest in
this outwitting of men who would have defrauded the settlers if they
could.

One day I noticed two men driving back and forth over a vacant claim
nearby. At sundown no one had established residence. I watched the
maneuvers of the two men.

"Ida," I called, "those men are going to jump that claim."

I looked over my land plat and saw that the homestead belonged to Rosie
Carrigan from Ohio. It was the last day of grace. She had until midnight
to get there.

It was a moonlight night. Ida Mary saddled Pinto and rode down the draw
toward the claim. From a slope where she could not be seen she watched
the two men. The evening wore on. At eleven o'clock, secure in the
knowledge that the owner had failed to arrive, the men pitched camp.

Ida Mary rode quietly up the