Hassayamp withdrew; in more haste than he had previously displayed, he ducked around the side of the hotel, rambled down the desert sands of the nominal alley, and in three minutes was rapping sharply at the back door of the adobe bank. This was opened to him by the small gray-faced man, who was no other than Sidewinder Crowfoot. Hassayamp slid inside and closed the door behind him. “Well?” rasped Sidewinder. “What’s up?” “That bug-hunter,” said Hassayamp agitatedly. “What ye think he said? That if he knowed where there was a good chicken-ranch, he might buy it!” A thin smile appeared in the gray mask. “That so? We’ll see about it.” “And he asked if I knowed anyone around here, a year back, name of Alec Ramsay.” The smaller man started, and his eyes glittered venomously. “So that’s it—so that’s it!” murmured Sidewinder. “I thought he didn’t act right natural. By gosh, I’ll look into him!” “Wa’n’t Ramsay the one,” began Hassayamp, “that bought that there claim from Mesquite up in Pinecate Cañon, and got mixed up with—” “Shut up!” snapped the other man suddenly. “Listen to me, now. I’ll attend to this gent myself, if he needs it. Let him run as far’s his hobbles will let, for a while. First we got to fix up Miss Gilman. You got to take her out day after tomorrow—_sabe_? I’ll have her all primed up about the location—you sell it to her. Take her up the Chuckwalla road, then off to Pinecate mesa and up the cañon to that big boulder. Sell her the same ground we sold that Ramsay fool. There’d ought to be water in it right now, and it’ll look mighty pretty. Sell her any location she picks out. _Sabe?_” “All right,” said Hassayamp. “And ye needn’t worry much over that bug-hunter. He’s jest a natural-born fool.” “Maybe,” was the response. “But don’t be too durned sure.” Sidewinder’s doubts would have been verified could he have seen Professor Tompkins at the same moment. Tompkins had removed goggles and helmet, reveal snapping blue eyes which looked anything but weak, and close-cropped red hair that spelled trouble. Also, from beneath his shirt he had produced an automatic pistol, and was now carefully examining its load. When he spoke to himself, his voice lacked all the precision and clipped utterance it had displayed in public. “Confound it, there’s one thing I sure overlooked!” he was musing as he frowned at a silver plate set into the butt of the pistol. “If I take it off, dust will get into everything; if I leave it on, I’m running risks. Well, guess I’ll run risks! If I need you, my friend, I’ll sure need you real bad.” The initials on the silver plate were P. A. R.—which by no stretch of the imagination could be made to fit the name Tompkins. CHAPTER II The usually free-and-easy dining-room of the Stovepipe House was hushed and uneasy when supper came around, before the unwonted presence of a strange female. Tompkins had a table to himself, and at the next table was Miss Gilman; there were only two other occupied tables.