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The cabin itself, built of unpainted boards, consisted of a sitting-room, dining-room, kitchen, and two bedrooms, all plainly furnished, although one of the bedrooms was better ordered, and displayed certain signs of feminine decoration, which made Jackson believe it had been his cousin’s room. Luckily, the slight, temporary structure bore no deep traces of its previous occupancy to disturb him with its memories, and for the same reason it gained in cleanliness and freshness. The dry, desiccating summer wind that blew through it had carried away both the odors and the sense of domesticity; even the adobe hearth had no fireside tales to tell,–its very ashes had been scattered by the winds; and the gravestone of its dead owner on the hill was no more flavorless of his personality than was this plain house in which he had lived and died. The excessive vegetation produced by the stirred-up soil had covered and hidden the empty tin cans, broken boxes, and fragments of clothing which usually heaped and littered the tent-pegs of the pioneer. Nature’s own profusion had thrust them into obscurity. Jackson Wells smiled as he recalled his sanguine partner’s idea of a treasure-trove concealed and stuffed in the crevices of this tenement, already so palpably picked clean by those wholesome scavengers of California, the dry air and burning sun. Yet he was not displeased at this obliteration of a previous tenancy; there was the better chance for him to originate something. He whistled hopefully as he lounged, with his hands in his pockets, towards the only fence and gate that gave upon the road. Something stuck up on the gate-post attracted his attention. It was a sheet of paper bearing the inscription in a large hand: “Notice to trespassers. Look out for the Orphan Robber!” A plain signboard in faded black letters on the gate, which had borne the legend: “Quincy Wells, Dealer in Fruit and Vegetables,” had been rudely altered in chalk to read: “Jackson Wells, Double Dealer in Wills and Codicils,” and the intimation “Bouquets sold here” had been changed to “Bequests stole here.” For an instant the simple-minded Jackson failed to discover any significance of this outrage, which seemed to him to be merely the wanton mischief of a schoolboy. But a sudden recollection of the lawyer’s caution sent the blood to his cheeks and kindled his indignation. He tore down the paper and rubbed out the chalk interpolation–and then laughed at his own anger. Nevertheless, he would not have liked his belligerent partners to see it.

A little curious to know the extent of this feeling, he entered one of the shops, and by one or two questions which judiciously betrayed his ownership of the property, he elicited only a tradesman’s interest in a possible future customer, and the ordinary curiosity about a stranger. The barkeeper of the hotel was civil, but brief and gloomy. He had heard the property was “willed away on account of some family quarrel which “warn’t none of his.” Mr. Wells would find Buckeye Hollow a mighty dull place after the mines. It was played out, sucked dry by two or three big mine owners who were trying to “freeze out” the other settlers, so as they might get the place to themselves and “boom it.” Brown, who had the big house over the hill, was the head devil of the gang! Wells felt his indignation kindle anew. And this girl that he had ousted was Brown’s friend. Was it possible that she was a party to Brown’s designs to get this three acres with the other lands? If so, his long-suffering uncle was only just in his revenge.

He put all this diffidently before his partners on his return, and was a little startled at their adopting it with sanguine ferocity. They hoped that he would put an end to his thoughts of backing out of it. Such a course now would be dishonorable to his uncle’s memory. It was clearly his duty to resist these blasted satraps of capitalists; he was providentially selected for the purpose–a village Hampden to withstand the tyrant. “And I reckon that shark of a lawyer knew all about it when he was gettin’ off that ‘purp stuff’ about people’s sympathies with the girl,” said Rice belligerently. “Contest the will, would he? Why, if we caught that Brown with a finger in the pie we’d just whip up the boys on this Ledge and lynch him. You hang on to that three acres and the garden patch of your forefathers, sonny, and we’ll see you through!”