They drove on in renewed silence. Tompkins had a new angle on his companion, and was not sure that he liked it; at all events, he perceived that Sagebrush knew his own mind and was not to be depended upon as an assistant under the present completion of things. The desert rat had a certain peculiar philosophy of his own, like all old prospectors, and arguments against it would be as useless as the teeth of a coyote against the shell of a tortoise. So Tompkins held his peace. The flat desert gave way to hills and depressions as they drew closer to the range, and by the action of the engine Tompkins knew that they had been on a steady climb. Also, he began to sight scattered piñon trees, indicating a higher altitude, and was conscious that they were following an ancient road. Presently the car was climbing along a well defined valley, which Sagebrush called Mint Cañon. “Ol’ stamp-mill ahead of us,” he announced. “Fellers used to bring quartz down to it from all around, in the ol’ days. Got to leave the car there. Job Carter put up that there mill; four-stamp crusher, she was—dad blame, how Job did like his licker! Used to make mint juleps in a bucket. That’s how come he growed mint. Job, he used to whiff the mint and then throw down the licker while he held his breath. One night he wakes up with a pain in his stummick and mixes him a julep in the dark, and got him the cyanide bottle by mistake, and he’s buried somewhere back o’ the mill right now. That’s what comes o’ not stoppin’ to appreciate your licker as it goes down.” They rounded a low hill and halted by the remains of the stamp-mill—a structure of weather-beaten boards, open in front, with the remains of a shed adjoining. The machinery was rusted and strewn about the place haphazard, and the whole place was the epitome of desolation. To one side was a board floor—the only relic of what had once been a roadside saloon, adjoining the mill. Sagebrush pointed out that by leaving the car here in shelter of the shed, they could then shoulder packs and cover the last three miles to Pinecate Cañon on foot. The Professor took one look at the duffle in the rear of the car, and threw in the gears. “Not by a blamed sight!” he said cheerfully. “Looks like Hassayamp’s car has gone ahead, so we’ll do likewise. Did I mention that Hassayamp is bringing Miss Gilman out today to look over the cañon for a chicken-ranch site?” “Dad blame it!” groaned Sagebrush. “Then I’m goin’ to take my pick and go look over the north end o’ the mesa. You can pester around that female if ye like, Perfesser, but not me. Send up a smoke when they’re gone and I’ll come in.” “Agreed,” and Tompkins laughed as he sent the car ahead in the faint tracks left by the other flivver. CHAPTER V Noon was passed and over. Tompkins, ensconced in a niche of the cañon, was delightedly observing the scene before him. Sagebrush was gone. The flivver was laid up out of sight a half-mile away in a thicket of cactus and piñon.