“Meanin’ that you sure know the desert, o’ course! What else would I mean?” Sagebrush grunted and departed, while Hassayamp muttered inaudibly and glared.
Tompkins climbed into the flivver; Sagebrush climbed in after him; and with a roar the little car started out of town. One mile north of Stovepipe Springs the main highway turned abruptly to the right, for the Chuckwalla range, and beyond it, the civilized purlieus of Chuckwalla City, thirty miles away. The desert highway continued on ahead, and ran, a flea-bitten track, straight over the northern horizon.
“I suppose,” asked Tompkins as they rattled out of town, “you never happened to meet up with a large pink granite boulder, halfway up a cañon, split in two, with three piñons growing out of it, and a little spring at the foot of the piñons?”
“Nope,” said Sagebrush after a moment. “Nope, can’t say that I have, but that don’t signify much. Aint no piñon trees around yere except toward the Chuckwallas. Pink granite is most anywheres. I’m right disappointed you aint headin’ east. I’d kind o’ set my notions on looking over that there Pinecate section.”
Tompkins chuckled. Then, as they approached the turn in the highway, he swung the car to the right and headed for the distant peaks of the Chuckwallas.
“That’s where we’re going, Sagebrush.”
“How come you told Hassayamp—”
“Because I was telling Hassayamp.”
Sagebrush grinned, got out a black plug of navy cut, and bit happily at it.
“You and me sure is goin’ to get on, Perfesser. Whoop her up!” Then he grunted. “You heard what he said ’bout it bein’ healthy out to the desert? Durn him! Durn him and Sidewinder and all the rest o’ them galoots! They been tryin’ to keep me out o’ the Chuckwallas for quite a spell back. I bet Hassayamp’s got some claims over there hisself.”