The arrival had unwound the green shawl, to disclose a mouth and chin which were certainly square-cut enough for anyone. He glanced around the circle of staring faces, and his goggles fastened upon the little man in rusty attire. Toward him the newcomer stepped, met the glittery gray eyes, and spoke. “Am I correct in assuming that this is Stovepipe Springs?” he asked. “Yep,” returned the small man curtly. “Excellent! An admirable spot. I am Percival Henry J. Tompkins, a humble member of the American Society of Mammalogists, in search of material for a paper on the fauna of the great American desert.” Mr. Tompkins spoke in a precise, neatly clipped voice. “I seek a temporary domicile here—” “Git over to Mormon Wells, then,” snapped the small man. “You misapprehend my meaning,” said Mr. Tompkins patiently. “I seek rooms at your hotel, and a guide. I want a man who knows the desert, who can lead me to the haunts of its creatures. Particularly I desire to study the habits of the _crotalus cerastes_.” With a flick of his shoulders, the small man turned as though to leave. Mr. Tompkins reached out and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, unwarned by the gasp from those near by. “My dear sir, I am addressing you—” What happened was startling to see. The little man moved with a swiftness that the eye could not follow, then stood snarling, his gray mask of a face glittering with sheer malignity. Tompkins, knocked sprawling half across the road, rolled over, sat up, and then struggled to his feet. He stood blinking around. “That—er—that was a most remarkable thing!” he exclaimed in his precise tones. “Did somebody run into me?” With a sneer and a snap of his teeth, the little man turned and departed toward the bank, which he owned. Haywire drew the old desert rat hastily aside. “Look out! Sidewinder’s feelin’ mean today. Him and that female woman have been talkin’ chicken-ranches, I reckon. Oh, my gosh! Now that there mistake for a human is headin’ this-a-way—” Mr. Tompkins, indeed, seemed to sense a general lack of cordiality all around him, except in the gaping countenance of Sagebrush, whom he now approached. “My friend—” “Pilgrim, don’t bother me!” said Sagebrush defensively. “It jest can’t be true!” “I’ll pay three dollars a day to a man who knows the desert.” Sagebrush changed countenance. So did the remainder of Stovepipe Springs. There was a general forward movement, but the desert rat was the first to recover voice. “You’re done, pilgrim, you’re sure engaged! What was it you wanted to find?” “_Crotalus cerastes_. Undoubtedly you can introduce me to specimens?” Sagebrush swallowed hard, but had a reputation to sustain, and upheld it nobly. “You bet!” he announced promptly. “Lots o’ them specimens up around Marble Cañon, and over by Lost Waterhole I’ve seen ’em so thick you couldn’t hardly move without steppin’ on ’em. I’ll take you right where them things breed, Perfesser.”