Wally had always fancied himself as a stage manager for amateur
theatricals. Now he justified his faith by transforming Kamatlah
outwardly from a company camp to a mushroom one settled by wandering
prospectors.
Gideon Holt alone was outside of all these activities and watched them
with suspicion. He was an old-timer, sly but fearless, who hated Colby
Macdonald with a bitter jealousy that could not be placated and he
took no pains to hide the fact. He had happened to be in the vicinity
prospecting when Macdonald had rushed his entries. Partly out of mere
perversity and partly by reason of native shrewdness, old Holt had
slipped in and located one of the best claims in the heart of the
group. Nor had he been moved to a reasonable compromise by any amount
of persuasion, threats, or tentative offers to buy a relinquishment.
He was obstinate. He knew a good thing when he had it, and he meant to
sit tight.
The adherents of the company might charge that Holt was cracked in the
upper story, but none of them denied he was sharp as a street Arab. He
guessed that all this preparation was not for nothing. Kamatlah was
being dressed up to impress somebody who would shortly arrive.
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