2
the middle fork of the river had dried up.
The farmers called in specialists who sank wells and pilot holes, measured the slopes. They heard much talk about water tables, about springs undercutting rock formations. But when it was done the fact remained: Dark Valley's water supply was choked off beyond man's ability to restore it. In the end the farmers gave up, left their dusty houses and shriveled orchards, and Dark Valley died.
Boys hiked over there occasionally. Men scouted for fence posts or pipe. Young couples passed quickly through on moonlight nights. And at least two stubborn old-timers still squatted at the upper end.
Now that Joe Merklos had bought it, of course, they would have to move.
"Well, won't they?" Henderson asked.
Jerry Bronson looked around at the other members of the Wide Bend Businessmen's Club. "Doesn't take a lawyer to answer that, Hen."
"Dam' shame," said Caruso, the barber, who always championed underdogs.
"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