Thin, nice-spoken, wears goggles, smokes cork-tips. Arrived Five from Angelica held here.
Tell impossible by any route (instructed Banneker). Wire result.
An hour later came the reply:
Won’t try to-night. Probably horse to-morrow.
Here was a problem, indeed, fit to chill the untimely self-congratulations of Banneker. Should the reporter come in—and come he would if it were humanly possible, by Banneker’s estimate of him—it would be by the only route which gave exit to the west. On the other side the flooded arroyo cut off escape. To try to take Io out through the forest, practically trackless, in that weather, or across the channeled desert, would be too grave a risk. To all intents and purposes they were marooned on an island with no reasonable chance of exit—except! To Banneker’s feverishly searching mind reverted a local legend. Taking a chance on missing some emergency call, he hurried over to the village and interviewed, through the persuasive interpretation of sundry drinks, an aged and bearded wreck whose languid and chipped accents spoke of a life originally far alien to the habitudes of the Sick Coyote where he was fatalistically awaiting his final attack of delirium tremens.
Banneker returned from that interview with a map upon which had been scrawled a few words in shaky, scholarly writing.
“But one doesn’t say it’s safe, mind you,” had warned the shell of Lionel Streatham in his husky pipe. “It’s only as a sporting offer that one would touch it. And the courses may have changed in seven years.”
Denny wired in the morning that the inquiring traveler had set out from Manzanita, unescorted, on horseback, adding the prediction that he would have a hell of a trip, even if he got through at all. Late that afternoon Gardner arrived at the station, soaked, hollow-eyed, stiff, exhausted, and cheerful. He shook hands with the agent.
“How do you like yourself in print?” he inquired.
“Pretty well,” answered Banneker. “It read better than I expected.”