“That’s what I’m here to know,” snapped Tompkins suddenly. “Remember my asking you about a boulder with piñon trees growing out of it? Well, that place is up yonder in Pinecate Cañon. My name isn’t Tompkins at all. It’s Pat Ramsay. Last year my brother Alec came over here to spend a year in the desert and clear up his lungs. He bought a place and vanished—clear vanished, and couldn’t be traced. The last heard of him was from Stovepipe Springs. He wrote me about a place he had bought, describing that boulder. I found this up the cañon in a pack-rat’s nest. Look it over while I get the car ready.”
He gave the cigarette case to the staring desert rat, then turned and went back to his own car. When he got this out of the brush, he removed most of the load and hid it securely among the trees. This done, he returned to Sagebrush, who was sitting on the running-board of Hassayamp’s car examining the deed.
“Anything I can do for your arm?” he asked.
“Nope. Bone aint hurt. Say, Perfesser, you’ve sure struck me all of a heap! Still, I knowed you wasn’t the danged fool you looked.”
“Thanks.” Tompkins laughed curtly. “Now, Sagebrush, I’m going to town, speak easy to everyone, and slide back here. First I want to investigate that Hourglass Cañon, wherever it is—”
“I know where it is,” said Sagebrush, scratching his wealth of whiskers.
“All right. Where do you come in on the program? Want to be left out?”
Sagebrush produced his pipe and sucked at it. At length he made slow answer.
“Perfesser, there’s some folks around here jest pining to be left alone, and most gen’ally they gets left alone. That cholo Mendoza was one such, and killin’ him aint botherin’ me none. Most likely you’ve discounted Sidewinder Crowfoot?”
“My guess is that he’s the head of the whole gang.”