“Am I correct in assuming that this is Stovepipe Springs?” he asked.
“Yep,” returned the small man curtly.
“Excellent! An admirable spot. I am Percival Henry J. Tompkins, a humble member of the American Society of Mammalogists, in search of material for a paper on the fauna of the great American desert.” Mr. Tompkins spoke in a precise, neatly clipped voice. “I seek a temporary domicile here—”
“Git over to Mormon Wells, then,” snapped the small man.
“You misapprehend my meaning,” said Mr. Tompkins patiently. “I seek rooms at your hotel, and a guide. I want a man who knows the desert, who can lead me to the haunts of its creatures. Particularly I desire to study the habits of the crotalus cerastes.”
With a flick of his shoulders, the small man turned as though to leave. Mr. Tompkins reached out and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, unwarned by the gasp from those near by.
“My dear sir, I am addressing you—”
What happened was startling to see. The little man moved with a swiftness that the eye could not follow, then stood snarling, his gray mask of a face glittering with sheer malignity. Tompkins, knocked sprawling half across the road, rolled over, sat up, and then struggled to his feet. He stood blinking around.
“That—er—that was a most remarkable thing!” he exclaimed in his precise tones. “Did somebody run into me?”
With a sneer and a snap of his teeth, the little man turned and departed toward the bank, which he owned. Haywire drew the old desert rat hastily aside.