The morning following this dialogue Leach and Morley set off over the desert toward the trail that led to Shirttail Bend, mounted and with two packed burros. They camped near the spring in the calico buttes, and every day they were out merely loafing about, but keeping in sight of the mouth of Henry’s trail. But many days had passed before they saw another human being; and they waylaid the first they saw coming down the trail--Shirttail Henry with Lot’s wife, on their way with sorrowful news for the Weather Bureau concerning the masticated rain gauge. From a distance Henry looked at them doubtfully and with long strides tried to evade them. But they closed in on him because of the reluctance of Mrs. Lot to make greater speed than that prescribed for general pack travel. Henry swung flutteringly about and grinned at the prospectors through his mat of ragged whiskers. “Now, looky-here, you fellas,” he threatened. “Come any o’ yer monkey-business on me and I’ll get a club, and I’ll take it and I’ll knock yer gysh-danged heads off! Heh-heh-heh!” This in the face of the fact that there was not a club within fifteen miles. “Close your trap!” growled Smith Morley. “Where’s the bunch?” “None o’ yer gysh-danged business!” was the retort. “Don’t rub his fur the wrong way,” came Leach’s whispered warning to his partner. “Get more out of him by kidding him along.” Morley tacked. “What’s the big idea of being so sore, Henry?” he asked cheerfully. “Why ain’t you boys gone from here?” “Well, we’re just still here--that’s all. Prospecting a little. Where you headed for, Henry?” “Say something about the weather,” whispered Leach. “How’s the weather up in the mountains, Henry?” Morley complied. “Looks a little like rain, don’t it?” Henry’s blue eyes brightened. “It sure does,” he agreed, casting an anxious look at the sky above the wooded ridges. “And here’s me without a rain gauge. Plumb ruint, boys. Roger’s bell burro she clean et her up. And here’s winter comin’ on, and me without a gauge! I’m hikin’ to Diamond H to send a letter for another one. If I don’t get her before it storms I’m plumb ruint--heh-heh-heh!” His face was so forlorn and his deep-throated chuckle so indicative of secret mirth that the result was ludicrous. “When’d that happen, Henry?” Leach questioned, affecting interest and sympathy. “Little time back.” “Where? At Shirttail Bend?” “No, up above the lake. Furder ner that--up on th’ toes o’ Dewlap.” “What were you doing up there, Henry?” “I was showin’ ’em how to get to the Valley of Arcana, which is her new name,” Henry divulged. “And Roger Furlong’s bell burro she--” “That was sure tough luck, Henry. And did they get to the valley?” “I don’t know. I reckon not. I hadta leave ’em and send in for another rain gauge.” “You ditched them up in that God-forsaken country--a bunch of greenhorns?” “What could I do?” pleaded Henry. “I’m a gov’ment official, and--” “Are they up in there yet?”