“Ever hear of a fellow named Ramsay, who was interested in mines around here?”
“Nope.” Sagebrush rose. “Well, I reckon I’ll go git them supplies, then git my correspondence finished today. See you around sunup tomorrow.”
He departed. Tompkins, left alone, opened his two large grips and began to pack one of them for the trip. The larger part of the contents consisted of supplies such as could not be purchased in Stovepipe Springs; there was even a large alcohol stove with plentiful fuel. The packing finished, from a secret pocket inside the grip Tompkins took a letter and began to peruse it carefully, not for the first nor the tenth time. The envelope had been postmarked “Stovepipe Springs” and bore a date of a year past. It was the final portion of the letter which attracted the rereading of Tompkins, however.
Enclosed is the deed to the property. I am more than satisfied with the prospects of the location. You will notice that the mining rights revert to the State in most instances, but here I have bought the land outright so there is no question of mineral rights. A man called Mesquite Harrison owned it.
I have seldom seen a more beautiful spot, even after the desert rains, for it is filled with all kinds of flowers. What a pity that flowers and water cannot last! Halfway up the cañon there is a huge boulder of pink granite, split squarely in two, with three piñons growing out of the split, and a tiny spring trickling from the piñons. Really a marvel! I understand the spring never fails, though it is too tiny to be of much use. Well, good-by for this time. I’m going to spend two months at the location, and if it has any gold I’ll know by that time.
Your loving brother,
Alec.
Tompkins folded the letter and put it away again, then sat down and sucked at his empty pipe.
“Poor Alec—what happened to him, I wonder!” he muttered. “And not a thing to go on. Deed to the property lost. No way of finding its location. Never recorded the deed. How was that deed lost? The letter was mailed here. It must have been in the letter. Therefore—but I’ve no proof. Hell! Once let me get a grip on something definite!”
He seized his glasses impatiently, donned them, and left the room. Outside he almost ran into Miss Gilman. She greeted him brightly.
“Good morning, sir! I hope your digestion is better today?”
“No, it’s worse.” Tompkins smiled. “Please remember to say nothing of my remarks.”
“I’ll have no chance,” she returned. “We’re leaving after breakfast tomorrow. Mr. Foster—otherwise Hassayamp—is taking me over toward those hills in the east. He knows of a splendid location for my chicken-ranch. Pinecate Mesa—isn’t that a romantic name?”