brother named Mike rubbed his whiskers. "Get much of a look at 'em when ye passed through?"

"Some."

"They furriners?"

Jerry sighed inwardly. "Maybe. They look like hard workers."

The Carver brothers cackled suddenly. "They better be! To farm that land."

Jerry passed back through the valley. A man knocking out stumps waved to him. A woman in a barnyard swished out her big skirts, shooing chickens. At that first farm, a trickle of water still ran from the pump....

Wide Bend was a normal community. Along with its natural curiosity there was a genuine feeling of neighborliness—heightened by the conviction that these hardworking strangers had thrown their money away on a hopeless venture. So, one way and another, a fair percentage of the town's population found excuses in the next few days to get out to Dark Valley. Bit by bit the reports filtered back to Jerry, and they all added up about the same.

Joe Merklos and his people were incredibly industrious. Already they had cleaned up the yards, repaired sagging barns and roofless sheds. Curtains fluttered at the windows. Cows had appeared, and sheep, even a few horses. Somehow, perhaps from accumulated seepage, they were still bringing water from the rusty pumps. And—though it was surely an illusion—Dark Valley seemed to have taken on a tinge of green again.

Wide Bend's womenfolk brought gifts of home-made preserves, jelly, canned vegetables ... and came away puzzled. No, they hadn't been badly received. All was politeness and smiles. But there was—well, a sort of remoteness about these people. The kids went out of sight the minute you turned into a place. And you just couldn't get close to the grown-ups. Dark, they were, and heavy-looking. They smiled a lot, jabbering in an unknown language. They had beautiful white teeth, but no jewelry or ornaments, such as gypsies might wear. They always appeared pleased that you brought them something. But on the way home you discovered you still had your presents, after all.

The best guess as to the number in the tribe (somehow, that seemed the best way to describe them) was sixty, give or take a few.

The general verdict was expressed by Henderson at the next club luncheon. "They're odd, but they're hard workers. Darned good thing for the community."

Miller, the jeweler, agreed vigorously.

"Self-interest," Jerry murmured, "is a wonderful thing."

They turned on him. "They haven't bought a thing from us! And what if they did?"

"Kidding, boys. I've got something to sell, too." Then Jerry frowned. "They haven't bought anything?"

Around the table, heads shook.

"Probably," Caruso growled, "they wear their hair long, too."

In the laughter, the matter was forgotten.

But Jerry remembered it that night, sitting on the porch of his house. There must be hundreds of items—tools and nails and hinges and glass and wire and sandpaper and oil and rope and seed and salt and sugar—that the tribe needed. How could they—?

There was a step on the path. "You there?" Caruso called.

"Yep."

The barber sat in the other chair, hoisted his feet to the railing. "You know how kids are."

"Um."

"That boy of mine, he couldn't stand it about Dark Valley. He was out there with a couple of pals, poking around."

"Yes?" Jerry didn't realize his voice was sharp.

"Oh, no trouble. But the middle fork of the river's started to run again!"

For a long time after Caruso had gone, Jerry sat with his cold pipe in his mouth. There were reasonable explanations for every one of the small oddities that had cropped up with Joe Merklos and his people. But he couldn't shake a growing feeling of uneasiness.

Jerry went to bed muttering, for he was a man trained to keep emotion and fact well separate. But the feeling was still with him when he awoke, and he recognized it later on Henderson's face.

"We got to get the boys together and talk this thing