“I know you are—in writing,” agreed the other equably. “That’s why I want your valued signature. You see, to be quite frank, I haven’t the fullest confidence in gentlemen in your line of business.” “I’ll have my lawyer draw up a form of contract and mail it after you to-morrow,” promised the quack with a crafty look. “No, you wo—” began Average Jones; but he broke off with a smile. “Very well,” he amended. “If things work out as I figure them, that will do. And,” he added, dropping into his significant drawl and looking the quack flatly in the eye, “don’t you—er—bank on my—er—not understanding your offer—and—er—you.” Uncomfortably pondering this reply, Doctor Hoff set about the matter of the expense money. Mean time a telegram came which settled the matter of immediate destination. It apprised Average Jones that, a fortnight previous, this paragraph had appeared in the paid columns of the Yuma Yucca: WANTED-Small, flat-bottomed sailboat. Centerboard type preferred. Hasty, care this office. Average Jones bought a ticket for Yuma. Disembarking at the Yuma station three days later, Average Jones blinked in the harsh sunlight at a small, compactly built, keen-eyed man, roughly dressed for the trail. “I’m Captain Funcke,” said the stranger. His speech was gentle, slow, even hesitant; but there was something competent and reliable in his bearing which satisfied the shrewd young reader of men’s characters from the outset. “Your wire got me two days since and I came right up.” “Any trace?” “Left here two days ago.” “Three of them?” “Yes. Flat-bottomed, narrow-beamed boat, sloop-rigged pretty light.” “Know anything of the men?” “Only the big one. Calls himself Colonel Richford. Had a fake copper outfit in the mountains east of Alamo.” “Where do you think they’re headed for?” “Probably the wildest country they can find, if they want to get rid of young Hoff,” said the other, who had been apprised of the main points of the situation. “That would likely be the Pinto range, to the southwest of the Laguna. Richford knows that country a little. He was in there two years ago.” “They would probably want to get rid of him without obvious murder;” said Average Jones. “You see, his money is in certified checks which they’d have to get cashed. If some one should find his body with a bullet-hole in it, they’d have some explaining to do.” “Nobody’d be likely to find it. Only about two parties a year get’ down there. Still, somebody might trail him. And I guess old Richford is too foxy to do any killing when he turns the trick just as well without it.” “Suppose it’s the Pintos, then. How do we get there?” “Hard-ash breeze,” returned the other succinctly. “Our rowboat is outfitted and waiting.” “Good work!” said Jones heartily. “How far is it?”