“I believe you would term the reptile a sidewinder—” “Oh, my gosh!” Hassayamp saw the dead snake and did an acrobatic stunt that removed him some distance away, while a revolver came out in his hand. “Don’t shoot!” said Tompkins. “He’s dead. I killed him.” “Why in hell didn’t you say so first?” snapped Hassayamp angrily. “What you doin’ up this-a-way? Thought you was headin’ into the sink-holes?” “I changed my mind,” said Tompkins. He showed Miss Gilman the pack-rat’s nest. “That’s worth seeing. I have a particular reason for asking you to remember it. But may I inquire whither you two are heading?” “Up the cañon to look at a chicken-ranch site,” said the girl, glancing from him to the nest and back again. “Will you come along? Or don’t you feel well? Really, you looked almost ghastly at first, Mr. Tompkins!” “Reckon the climb would be too blamed hard on the Puffesser, ma’am,” struck in Hassayamp, who did not desire company. “And there aint no bugs up there.” “All the more honor in discovering some, sir! I accept your invitation, madam, and shall accompany you a little way.” “We’ve brought lunch along, if you’ll join us,” invited Miss Gilman, starting off again with Tompkins at her side. He glanced around and saw that Hassayamp had paused to wipe a dripping brow and bite off a fresh chew, and was momentarily out of earshot. Swiftly, he took the cigarette case from his pocket and passed it to the girl. “Open this and read it—quick, now! I found it in that rat’s nest. When I tell you my real name is Pat Ramsay, you’ll be able to guess why I came here—and whether my warning was well founded. Read the deed carefully, then see whether the place you’re going to buy corresponds with it. Quickly! I’ll hold this rascal engaged. Read and give it back to me. I must get back to town at once.” With this rapid utterance, he turned abruptly from the girl and walked back to Hassayamp, halting the latter’s advance with upraised hand. “Mr. Foster!” he said solemnly. “May I inquire, sir—ah, that is a very interesting creature on your collar, very interesting indeed!” Hassayamp screwed his head to look at himself, but could see nothing. “What is it?” he demanded nervously. “A beautiful little creature, peculiar to our deserts,” said Tompkins in bland accents. “Undoubtedly it has sought refuge from the sun under your shirt-collar. You know, of course, that the _solpugid_ is really an insect, having tracheal tubes instead of the spider’s book lungs—” “A spider!” exclaimed Hassayamp. “Git it off’m me, Puffesser, quick!” “Not a spider at all, my dear sir, and quite harmless, I assure you, despite local superstition. Ah, there it goes about your collar—no wonder the dear little creatures are called wind-scorpions or vinegaroons—” “A _matavenado_—wow! My gosh, git him off’m me!” Hassayamp let out a yell and began to claw at himself. “I’m a dead man—git him off’m me—” Tompkins seized him and brushed vigorously at his back.