Part 2

“Wait just a minute, Mr. Murtry. I’ve just thought about somethin’ that may save you a whole lot of money, an’ save me that long trip upriver on foot. An old-timer over on Penny Ante Crick has been tellin’ all around that this young Benton sledded in nearly five gallons of oil last winter. He was laughin’ about him usin’ it to grease his sled runners, an’ he’s got upward of four gallons of it left. Now, if you could buy it off him----”

“Why, of course,” Murtry interrupted briskly. “I heard about it a month ago. Just forgot it.” He turned to Benton. “How much do you want for that oil?” he asked in a pleasant voice.

Young Benton was thinking fast. He, too, had forgotten all about the oil that he had bought to make slippin’ easy. He had considered the stuff worthless, but now----

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Murtry,” he said thoughtfully, “I had a lot of work sledding that oil in here last winter. I really hadn’t thought about selling it, but since you need it, and I don’t, I’ll let you have it.”

“You mean for nothin’?” Murtry asked incredulously.

“Of course not. I mean for a fair price.”

Murtry became suspicious. “What do you call a fair price?” he countered. “It’s worth nothin’ whatever to you, an’ I’ll give you--let’s see, I’ll give you two dollars a gallon for it an’ allow you a dollar a pound for freightin’ it into the country. Fair enough, ain’t it?”

Benton grinned. “That’s one way of looking at it,” he said amiably, “but I really can’t think of letting it go for what you offer. Two dollars a gallon is more than the oil is worth, but--the freighting the stuff into this country. Man, that was the hardest work I ever did in my life!”

“I get you.” Murtry spoke thickly. “You’ve got me where the wool’s short an’ you aim to gouge me. All right--tell you what I’ll do--I’ll give you a hundred dollars cash on the nail. How ’bout it?”

“That _would_ be gouging, as you call it.” Benton seemed to be considering the matter. “No,” he said at last, “I can’t take that much money. Four gallons of oil isn’t worth a hundred dollars.”

“Say, what in thunder are you drivin’ at?” Murtry cried angrily. “Are you tryin’ to kid somebody?”

“Not at all. You’ve made your offer, and now I’ll make mine.” Benton spoke slowly and distinctly. “As you said a moment ago, that oil is really worth nothing at all to me, so I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll just give you the oil, provided that you’ll give me something that’s worth nothing whatever to you. In case you don’t know, I mean a sluice head of water from Caribou Creek. Are you on?”

Murtry was thinking hard. There was not one chance in a thousand of this confident youngster finding gold on that little dry gulch. There was water to spare, lots of it going to waste, but oil--there was only four gallons of lubricating oil in the country! With a scowl, Murtry nodded his head in the affirmative.

* * * * *

It was a month later before the old-timer visited young Benton on his dry gulch. Fully a half dozen men were bustling about on the claim. Benton himself was closely watching two men who were holding the nozzle of a pressure hose trained against a bank of gravel. The old-timer stood aghast until Benton came over to greet him.

“Well, how in the name of Sam Hill,” said the old man, “did you ever make a deal with Joe Murtry to get this water!”

For reply Benton fished a bit of paper from his pocket, and passed it over. “Read it,” he said with a grin.

The old-timer slowly spelled out the brief document.

In consideration of four gallons of engine oil, I hereby agree to sell, assign, and transfer to Harris Benton, a full sluice head of water to be taken from the waters of Caribou Creek, and I agree to allow him or his agents to go on my claim or claims to dig the necessary ditch to carry said water.

Joe Murtry.

“You’re the first man that ever got the best of Joe Murtry,” gasped the old-timer. “How in thunder did you do it?”

Benton explained.

“And now,” he went on, “I’ve got some good miners working for me, but--you’re an old-timer--do they seem to be working the ground all right?”

“Listen, son,” said the old-timer solemnly. “You don’t need the advice of an old-timer.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June 5, 1926 issue of Western Story Magazine.]