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section of greasewood flats, pray for rain?”
    The S.P. agent said, “I can see you know a thing or two about land speculation, Mister MacKail. Putting all our cards on the table, I will tell you true that the Southern Pacific offers no guarantee you’ll ever grow a head of lettuce on the land we’re offering so cheap. I don’t mind saying the lots we’re offering may be worth less than nothing should the water project fail. We’ve been paying taxes for years on land we couldn’t give away before the engineers discovered a canal route from the Colorado River near Yuma to the center of the Imperial Valley and beyond. We’re not affiliated with the water outfit in any way. But we know them by reputation and we think we know a good plan when we see one.”
    Stringer nodded doubtfully. “So why ain’t the grand irrigation scheme on paper, where a body like me could judge for himself whether they know their asses from their elbows?”
    â€œThat’s simple,” the S.P. agent answered, smiling thinly. “We’d look dumb mapping water canals on our own brochures when we’re not sure where they’ll run in the end, wouldn’t we? The Imperial Valley is flat as a pancake to the eye, but water runs a lot more particular. They have to grade their canals as they go, to allow for such gentle rolling as there might be to the lay of the land, see?”
    Stringer shifted the unlit stub of his smoke to the far side of his mouth and replied, “I dunno. I suspect I’d best have me a powwow with these water lords afore I lay out any hard-earned cash. How do I go about that? Do they have an office somewhere around here pard?”
    The slicker shook his head and tried to look regretful. “Nope. Yuma, in the Arizona Territory, is where they have their main office. They may or may not be able to show you just how far any land you buy off us may wind up from one of their main feeder canals. The point you seem to be missing is that now is the time to grab some of that cheap land, before the real land rush starts. Irrigated desert loam can run as high as three figures an acre. Would you rather buy a full section at those prices?”
    Stringer said, “Not hardly,” and got to his feet. “I reckon I’d best study on it some. It’s been nice talking to you.”
    The land monger didn’t argue. He was no doubt used to having anyone with the brains of a gnat hesitate to jump at the chance to buy a greasewood flat. And that would have been the end of it had not Stringer encountered yet another slicker coming in as he was leaving.
    Stringer didn’t recall the man’s face. But the son of a bitch shot him a thoughtful look and demanded, “Say, aren’t you Stuart MacKail from the San Francisco Sun? What brings you to our land office at this hour, for Pete’s sake?”
    Stringer muttered he’d come to see Pete and pushed past him and out to the street, his impersonation of a sucker blown to shreds. But, what the hell, he’d likely found out as much as these land mongers meant to tell anyone in any case.

CHAPTER THREE

    Downtown L.A. had grown up around the already fair-sized Pueblo de Los Angeles, and nobody had evicted the original Hispanic population as other ethnic groups moved in. This didn’t worry Stringer until he’d returned his hired mount to the livery and found himself afoot on the dark sidestreet a livery hand had assured him to be the shortest way to his hotel.
    The buildings to either side were frame. Mexican carpenters had been as quick to grasp the advantages of the Yankee two-by-four and machine-made nail as anyone else in the Los Angeles Basin. So Chicano kids were taking advantage of that other Anglo cultural introduction, the front porch, to lie in wait for any source of amusement that might pass through their otherwise dull thoroughfair. As a native Californian himself, Stringer spoke a more