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aint no guide, though. All he knows is roads. Git him off'm the road, or show him a t'rant'ler in his blankets, and gosh! Hassayamp is worse'n a tenderfoot. Say, I heard a good one on him this trip!"

      Sagebrush chuckled again, spat on the floor, and scratched his whiskers.

      "Met up with two fellers in the Salt Pans—ol' Hardrock Miller from Tucson, and another feller. Hardrock used to be a Mormon 'fore they run him out of Arizona for bein' too durned Mormonistic. He tells me Hassayamp used to be one too, away over to St. John's, 'bout fifteen year back. 'Cordin' to him, Hassayamp vanished real sudden one night, and so did all the money helongin' to the church, and several head of hosses belongin' to other folks. May not be true, though. Hardrock Miller saved hisself from bein' lynched once by tellin' the truth, and aint never done it since. Afraid his luck'd turn, maybe."

      Tompkins smiled. "Know a fellow by the name of Mesquite Harrison?"

      "Do I?" Sagebrush scowled and spat again. "Is that skunk in town? Then by gosh, I'm goin' for him!" The desert rat shot a hand to his waistband, where there was a swelling about the size of a revolver. "Why, Perfesser, Mesquite is rank pizen! Yessir. I've knowed him to rob prospectors of their grub—it's a fact! And once he changed the signs over in the Salt Pans, so's a poor pilgrim took his team the wrong way and durned near died, and that skunk Mesquite robbed him bare. By gosh, anybody who changes water-hole signs in the Salt Pans gits shot on sight! Mesquite knows it, too. He don't come to town when I'm due, usually—"

      "He's not here now," said Tompkins. "I heard the name mentioned; that's all. I've bought a flivver, and I wish you'd purchase all supplies necessary and get them loaded into the back seat. Strap her down good. We can get off in the morning."

      "Gosh!" said Sagebrush, a far-away look in his eyes. "It'll seem lonesome as hell without them burros—well, s'pose I got to do it. Where we goin' to?"

      "Don't know yet."

      "I'd sort o' like to look over them ledges jest this side the Chuckwallas—over by Pinecate Cañon," said the desert rat thoughtfully.

      "Can we find any crotalus cerastes there?"

      "I reckon so. Find most anything there." Sagebrush inspected his employer curiously. "Say, you aint so bad a feller when you git off to yourself, Perfesser. You talk real human. Kind of put on dog when there's any folks around, don't you?"

      Tompkins laughed. "I expect I do, Sagebrush. How about water over by that place you mentioned—Pinecate Cañon?"

      "Plenty right now. Rains aint only jest quit. Another two weeks, and we wont find nary a drap. Cañon ought to look right pretty, too, with the flowers. The desert sure is handsome this time o' year. All the bugs comin' out, too, so's you'll feel to home. Lots o' tumble-bugs over by the mesa and cañon—that's how come it's called Pinecate, bein' the Mex name for tumble-bug."

      "Ever hear of a fellow named Ramsay, who was interested in mines around here?"

      "Nope." Sagebrush rose. "Well, I reckon I'll go git them supplies, then git my correspondence finished today. See you around sunup tomorrow."

      HE departed. Tompkins, left alone, opened his two large grips and began to pack one of them for the trip. The larger part of the contents consisted of supplies such as could not be purchased in Stovepipe Springs; there was even a large alcohol stove with plentiful fuel. The packing finished, from a secret pocket inside the grip Tompkins took a letter and began to peruse it carefully, not for the first nor the tenth time. The envelope had been postmarked "Stovepipe Springs" and bore a date of a year past. It was the final portion of the letter which attracted the rereading of Tompkins, however.

      Enclosed is the deed to the property. I am more than satisfied with the prospects of the location. You will notice that the mining rights revert to the State in most instances, but here I have bought the land outright so there is no question of mineral rights. A man called Mesquite Harrison owned it.

      I have seldom seen a more beautiful spot, even after the desert rains, for it is filled with all kinds of flowers. What a pity that flowers and water cannot last! Halfway up the cañon there is a huge boulder of pink granite, split squarely in two, with three piñons growing out of the split, and a tiny spring trickling from the piñons. Really a marvel! I understand the spring never fails, though it is too tiny to be of much use. Well, good-by for this time. I'm going to spend two months at the location, and if it has any gold I'll know by that time.

      Your loving brother,

      Alec.

      Tompkins folded the letter and put it away again, then sat down and sucked at his empty pipe.

      "Poor Alec—what happened to him, I wonder!" he muttered. "And not a thing to go on. Deed to the property lost. No way of finding its location. Never recorded the deed. How was that deed lost? The letter was mailed here. It must have been in the letter. Therefore—but I've no proof. Hell! Once let me get a grip on something definite!"

      He seized his glasses impatiently, donned them, and left the room. Outside he almost ran into Miss Gilman. She greeted him brightly.

      "Good morning, sir! I hope your digestion is better today?"

      "No, it's worse." Tompkins smiled. "Please remember to say nothing of my remarks."

      "I'll have no chance," she returned. "We're leaving after breakfast tomorrow. Mr. Foster—otherwise Hassayamp—is taking me over toward those hills in the east. He knows of a splendid location for my chicken-ranch. Pinecate Mesa—isn't that a romantic name?"

      "Very," said Tompkins gravely. "Very romantic. It means tumblebug. I may be going in that direction myself, so I'll hope to see you again."

      And before she could say yea or nay to this, he went on his way.

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