heart of our properties, and so it ought to belong to us. Of course, it is
of no use to you. There isn't any possible room to sink a shaft. We'll
take it from you if you like, and even pay you a nominal price. For what
will you sell?"

Ridgway lit a cigar before he answered: "One million dollars."

"What?" screamed Bartel.

"Not a cent less. I call it the Trust Buster. Before I'm through, you'll
find it is worth that to me."

The lawyer reported him demented to the Consolidated officials, who
declared war on him from that day.

They found the young adventurer more than prepared for them. If he had a
Napoleonic sense of big vital factors, he had no less a genius for detail.
He had already picked up an intimate knowledge of the hundreds of veins
and crossveins that traverse the Mesa copper-fields, and he had delved
patiently into the tangled history of the litigation that the defective
mining laws in pioneer days had made possible. When the Consolidated
attempted to harass him by legal process, he countered by instituting a
score of suits against the company within the week. These had to do with
wills, insanity cases, extra lateral rights, mine titles, and land and
water rights. Wherever Ridgway saw room for an entering wedge to dispute
the title of the Consolidated, he drove a new suit home. To say the least,
the trust found it annoying to be enjoined from working its mines, to be
cited for contempt before judges employed in the interests of its
opponent, to be served with restraining orders when clearly within its
rights. But when these adverse legal decisions began to affect vital