"I'm going to Dry River," Bassett said shortly.

"Dry River's right, if you're looking for oil! Go easy on the
brakes, old man. We need 'em in our business."

Dry River was a small settlement away from the railroad. It
consisted of two intersecting unpaved streets, a dozen or so
houses, a closed and empty saloon and two general stores. He chose
one at random and found that the old Livingstone place had been
sold ten years ago, on the death of its owner, Henry Livingstone.

"His brother from the East inherited it," said the storekeeper.
"He came and sold out, lock, stock and barrel. Not that there was
much. A few cattle and horses, and the stuff in the ranch house,
which wasn't valuable. There were a lot of books, and the brother
gave them for a library, but we haven't any building. The railroad
isn't built this far yet, and unless we get oil here it won't be."

"The brother inherited it, eh? Do you know the brother's name?"

"David, I think. He was a doctor back East somewhere."

"Then this Henry Livingstone wasn't married? Or at least had no
children?"

"He wasn't married. He was a sort of hermit. He'd been dead two
days before any one knew it. My wife went out when they found him
and got him ready for the funeral. He was buried before the
brother got here." He glanced at Bassett shrewdly. "The place has
been prospected for oil, and there's a dry hole on the next ranch.