Tompkins looked at Pinecate. This was a great gaunt saddleback that ran off into the range; he set it down as about ten miles distant, and well to the left. The cañon which gave access to the mesa itself was, as Sagebrush informed him, on the north side and therefore out of sight at present. The turnout was almost invisible, but Tompkins caught it, swerved the car into the looser sand, and was aware of a grunt of assent from beside him. Then he jammed on the brakes and slid into a “dry” wash which at the moment was a foot deep in water, splashed through, and climbed out on the other side. “Hold on a minute,” spoke up Sagebrush. “Let’s have a look at this yere trail.” The car halted, and both men got out. Here, off the highway and sheltered by the mesquite on either hand, die loose earth would bear any “sign” indefinitely, for nothing less than a sandstorm would wash over the tracks. Sagebrush examined the sand attentively, then expectorated and turned to Tompkins, who had donned his yellow blinders as a protection against the glare. “What d’ye make of it?” “Automobile,” said Tompkins. “How long ago, I can’t say.” Sagebrush grunted, at this, and pointed to a series of scroll-like markings which followed the right-hand tire-rut. Then he indicated further prints in the shape of a Maltese cross, which had obviously been made over the scrolls. “Flivver come along yere yestiddy,” he stated. “Last night a sidewinder come along and follered the ruts. Then this mornin’ early a roadrunner come along likewise.” “All obvious but the time, Sherlock,” said Tompkins gravely. “How do you know it was yesterday and not last week?” “’Cause I seen that thar cuss Hassayamp ridin’ out this-a-way yestiddy mornin’ as I was comin’ in to town to mail my postcards. Some skullduggery goin’ on.” “Hm!” Tompkins frowned. “Sagebrush, that mesa up ahead would make a fine place for a chicken-ranch, wouldn’t it?”