Tom merely grunted in reply, and led the way into a weed-grown yard. The fence was of wire and laths—the kind bought by the roll ready to set up; but it was very much dilapidated. The fence had never been finished at the rear and up on a scrubby side hill behind the house a man was wielding an axe.
“Maybe he knows something about this Flapjack Peters person,” grumbled Tom.
“Knock on the back door,” ordered Ruth Fielding briskly. “If that guide has a daughter she must know where he’s gone, and for how long. It’s the most mysterious thing!”
“It gets me,” admitted Tom, knocking again.
“Mr. Hammond said that he knew this guide and that he believed he was a fairly trustworthy person. He is what they call an ‘old-timer’—been living here or hereabout for years and years. Just the person to find Freezeout Camp.”
“Well, there must be other men who know their way about the hills,” and Tom turned his back to the door to look straight away across the valley toward the faint, blue eminences that marked the Hualapai Range.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” sighed Ruth, likewise looking at the mountains. “How clear the air is! See that peak away to the north? We saw it from the car window. That is the tallest mountain in the range—Hualapai Peak. Oh, Tom!”
“Yes?” he asked.
“That man looks awfully funny to me. Do you see——?”
Tom wheeled to look at the person chopping wood a few rods away. The woodchopper wore an old felt hat; from underneath its brim flowed several straggly locks of black hair.