“Show me a place to sleep,” commanded the visitor, and the one called Guadalupe carried the doctor’s bed-roll to his own hut, of which squaw and children were speedily dispossessed. So the good doctor from Arizora slept the rest of the night in the rancheria of the Sand People, last remnant of that Papago family for which the Mission of the Four Evangelists was reared to save souls. In five hours the Doc had covered by gasoline what it would have cost Guadalupe of the Sand People as many days in painful plodding. Morning saw the rancheria in a ferment of excitement and Doc Stooder viciously tyrannical in reaction from his accustomed alcoholic night. Guadalupe found himself in a difficult position. Once in a moment of gratitude when the white doctor had snatched his squaw from the tortures of asthma--the miracle had occurred in Guadalupe’s summer camp near Arizora--the Indian had babbled his knowledge of the buried mission, its treasure. But he had not counted upon this unexpected appearance of the white doctor, demanding to be led to the place of wealth. It is common with all the Southwestern Indians to believe naught but ill luck can follow any revelation to a white man of the desert’s hidden gold; some say the early padres, themselves consistent hoarders, inculcated this lesson. With the eyes of his fellow villagers disapprovingly upon him, Guadalupe first attempted evasion. Stooder in an ominous quiet heard him through. Then without a word he opened a small medicine chest he carried in his bed-roll and took therefrom two tightly folded pieces of paper--blue and white. While Guadalupe and the rest watched, round-eyed, the doctor made quick passes with each bit of paper over the mouth of a small water _olla_. The surface of the water sizzed and boiled. Guadalupe, two shades whiter, babbled his willingness to go at once to the place where the mission lay hidden. “Prime cathartic for the mind,” grunted the Doc, and he tuned his engine for the trip. They were off down the cañon and into the yellow basin of El Infiernillo. Guadalupe, riding for the first time in the white man’s smell-wagon, gripped his seat with the delicious fear of a child on a merry-go-round. He watched the movements of the doctor’s foot on the gear-shift, marvelling that the beast concealed in pipes and rods answered each downward thrust with a roar. Earth spun under him as if Elder Brother himself, master of all created things, had a hold on it and were pulling it all one way. Down and down into the untracked miles of Altar. A single iron post on a hill marking the Line. The sierra of Pinacate cinder-red in the south for a beacon. Right and left sheet iron ranges with stipples of rust where the _camisa_ grew. Mirage quivering into nothingness just as its false waters were ready to be parted by the car’s wheels.