“Nope.” Sagebrush expectorated, wiped his lips and grinned. “I was peckin’ away at a ledge in a cañon a couple mile east of yere, when durned if that feller Mesquite Harrison didn’t come ridin’ down the cañon on a hoss! Yessir! Right on top o’ me, ’fore I seen him, too. He started throwin’ lead, and I covered up, and ’fore I could git into action, the coyote was gone. Then along come another feller that I hadn’t seen, this yere _cholo_, and durned if he didn’t pick on me too. But I was ready for him, you betcha! I gives him jest one crack from ol’ Betsy,”—here Sagebrush patted his waistband significantly,—“and he flops. I walks over to him and seen he looked like this _cholo_ Mendoza, and then I come back yere and set down to rest a spell.” “Killed him?” asked Tompkins curtly. “Hope so. He was some dead when I left him, anyhow, but you never can tell ’bout them _marihuana_-eaters. I knowed a _cholo_ over to Mormon Wells, oncet, that et _marihuana_ and smoked it likewise. Fin’ly one night he got plumb filled up on it, and jumped into the corral and begun to slash the hosses with his knife. Sheriff and two other fellers sat on the bars and pumped lead into him for as much as five minutes, but he didn’t quit till he’d slashed every hoss there; then he quit. Sheriff allowed he’d been dead with the first shot, but the _marihuana_ had kep’ him goin’, same’s a rattler keeps a-twitchin’ till sundown after he’s dead. That there hop is powerful stuff, Perfesser.” Tompkins stood staring at the desert rat for a moment. Then: “The whole gang will be after you now, wont they?” Sagebrush gave him a queer look. “How come you know so durned much, Perfesser?” “That’s what I’m here to know,” snapped Tompkins suddenly. “Remember my asking you about a boulder with piñon trees growing out of it? Well, that place is up yonder in Pinecate Cañon. My name isn’t Tompkins at all. It’s Pat Ramsay. Last year my brother Alec came over here to spend a year in the desert and clear up his lungs. He bought a place and vanished—clear vanished, and couldn’t be traced. The last heard of him was from Stovepipe Springs. He wrote me about a place he had bought, describing that boulder. I found this up the cañon in a pack-rat’s nest. Look it over while I get the car ready.” He gave the cigarette case to the staring desert rat, then turned and went back to his own car. When he got this out of the brush, he removed most of the load and hid it securely among the trees. This done, he returned to Sagebrush, who was sitting on the running-board of Hassayamp’s car examining the deed. “Anything I can do for your arm?” he asked. “Nope. Bone aint hurt. Say, Perfesser, you’ve sure struck me all of a heap! Still, I knowed you wasn’t the danged fool you looked.” “Thanks.” Tompkins laughed curtly. “Now, Sagebrush, I’m going to town, speak easy to everyone, and slide back here. First I want to investigate that Hourglass Cañon, wherever it is—”