"Loco says he doesn't know anything about our man, Clancy," reported Frank. "I guess he's telling the truth, Chip," Clancy replied. "I can't find any extra live stock around, and it's hardly possible, anyhow, that Porter would stop such a short distance from the mine. It's a safe bet that he's gone on to McGurvin's." Frank was in a quandary. "This adobe," said he, "is at the forks of the trail. One branch goes to the mine and Ophir, and the other leads to Gold Hill. It's just possible that Porter took the Gold Hill fork and didn't go on to McGurvin's." "He wouldn't do that, Chip." Clancy answered. "If he had wanted to go to Gold Hill he would have turned north from the mine and taken the shorter road through Ophir." "Unless," Frank qualified, "he had reasons for not wanting to pass through Ophir. Porter might have thought that we would use the telephone if he went that way, and have some one stop him." "Tell you what we can do," Clancy suggested, taken somewhat with Merry's logic and yet not quite satisfied to recede from his own position, "we can go on to McGurvin's; then, if we don't overhaul Porter on the road, or pick up any clews at McGurvin's, we can come back and take the Gold Hill fork from here. We can get over the ground like an express train with these machines, and can ride circles all around that horse that carried the prospector away from the mine." "Good!" agreed Frank. "We'll see how long it will take us to get to McGurvin's. It's only seven or eight miles." "Hit 'er up, Chip," cried the red-headed chap; "you won't find me taking any of your dust." Once more they got their machines in motion along the trail. The going was none too good, and Merry got his machine going at a pace that might have been reckless had not the brilliant, far-flung rays of the searchlight laid the way so clearly before his eyes. "That the best you can do?" called Clancy, whirring along at his chum's side. "This will do," Frank answered. "We're not on a boulevard, remember." Clancy gave a laugh of sheer exhilaration, for the thrill of that wild dash through the night and across the desert was in his veins. "We'll be running Porter down before we can see him, Chip," he called, the wind of their flight casting his words behind him in splintering echoes. But Merriwell had no fear of that. If Nick Porter had ridden hard, he would already have had time to cover the distance between the mine and McGurvin's. McGurvin's ranch was the last place, short of Happenchance in the Picket Post Mountains, where water could be secured. Surely, if Porter had come that way, he would stop at the ranch. He had left the mine too hurriedly to equip himself with water canteens and rations for a prolonged stay in the desert. Frank's hopes were mounting high as the motor cycles devoured the distance that separated their riders front McGurvin's.