“Figgerin’ on a little _pasear_ down ’crost the Line?” hopefully from that worthy as he helped noose the tarpaulin over the dunnage. The Doc’s head was buried above the ears among the engine’s naked cylinders and he professed not to hear. When Stooder was seated at the wheel and the storekeeper had the edge of the final pail of water over the radiator vent he feebly flung out his last grappling hook: “Reckon you might be selling Bibles to the Papagoes.” “Come here, friend,” sternly from the doctor. “Now I give you the way inside if you’ll promise to keep it mum.” The storekeeper hopped around to lean his ear over the wheel in gleeful anticipation. “I’m a-goin’ south from here to give a Chinese lady a lesson on the ocarina. So long!” When the Doc skittered down the brief Main Street and out onto the thread of grey caliche that was the road to the mysterious south all of the west was a-roil with the final palette scrapings of the sunset--umber, pale lemon and, high above the mountains standing black as obsidian, cirrus clouds dyed a fugitive cherry. Ahead showed the ragged gate into the valley of El Infiernillo--the Little Hell--place of bleak distances between mountain ranges bare as sheet iron; place of unimaginable thirst when summer sun hurls reflected heat back from burning walls. Beyond El Infiernillo just a hint of peaks like fretwork spires marked destination for the doctor; there at the foot of the Growler range and where the Desert of Altar washes across the imaginary line between two nations, lay the land of his desire. Somewhere on the Road of the Dead Men passing through that savage waste perchance a nubbin of weathered ’dobe wall lifted a few inches above the sand to mark treasure of gold and pearls below; maybe naught but a charred timber end concealed by a patch of greasewood and crying a secret to the ears of the searcher. Gold and pearls--pearls and gold! The Doc’s rapt eye caught the colours of sacred treasure in the dyes of the sunset and read them for a portent of success. “Me, I’m a-goin’ just slosh around in wealth! Doc Stooder, the man with the _dinero_--that’s me!” The gaunt head behind the wheel of the desert skimmer was tilted back and A. Stooder, M.D., carolled his expectations at the new stars. Then he reined in his gas snorter long enough to fumble with his bed roll in the wagon box. Out came a square bottle of fluid fire, such as passes currency with the international bootleggers in the Southwest. The Doc drank heartily to the promise spread across the western heavens. The bottle was tucked in a handy coat pocket for future reference.