Noon was passed and over. Tompkins, ensconced in a niche of the cañon, was delightedly observing the scene before him. Sagebrush was gone. The flivver was laid up out of sight a half-mile away in a thicket of cactus and piñon.
It was peaceful here in the cañon, and hot. Tompkins lay shaded by an overhanging rock which concealed him and enjoyed himself while he waited. He was a third of the way up the cañon, which wound upward for another mile before opening on the mesa. Here it was fairly wide, and the sun had excellent chances to radiate from the boulders, and the spring life of the place was warmed into activity. Patches of cacti and jack-pine abounded. No water was in sight, but Tompkins had a water-bag within reach.
He lay perfectly quiet, watching a trade-rat whose nest lay in a cranny of the rocks just to one side, and a young coyote which was vainly endeavoring to investigate the rat and nest. It was obvious that this particular rat had migrated from the desert below, for while his nest was composed of pebbles and sticks and all manner of queer objects, it was protected after the peculiar fashion of his desert brethren. Two runways entered the nest, itself nearly out of sight under the rocks; and about these runways, laid with mathematical precision, were hundreds of terrible opuntia joints.
To Tompkins, as to every other naturalist, it was an unsolved mystery how the pack-rat, with delicate and unprotected paws, could handle these joints of cactus. No other living creature can face the cholla cactus, whose spines, as the Indians declare, jump at one, inflicting acute agony; even the rattler avoids it gingerly. Here for a space of ten feet around the nest were heaped the matted cholla joints, while the pack-rat who owned the establishment sat out in full sight and insulted the hovering coyote with angry taunts.
That the coyote was young and hungry was obvious, or he would not have attempted to molest so well-entrenched a rat. Oblivious to the presence of Tompkins, who sat perfectly motionless, he charged again and again on those defenses. Each time his courage failed at the last moment and he would draw off, snarling and snapping in futile rage, before his nose touched the cholla.
In a cool niche between two rocks, in sight of Tompkins above but concealed from the furious coyote, lay a fifteen-inch sidewinder, safely sheltered from the deadly rays of the sun, his brown-and-gray length practically invisible against the rocks. He lay stretched out, head lifted ready to strike, a venomous and malignant thing beyond all words with his horned features and green jewels of eyes. The coyote, unconscious of this lurking death, continued backward and forward, now rushing and now sending a flurry of sand flying in his anger. One such flurry had aroused the sidewinder, and Tompkins waited for the inevitable, since the coyote was drawing closer and closer to the unseen death.
Now it came, with such rapidity that the eye could scarcely follow. Pawing the sand, the coyote came sidewise toward the niche of the sidewinder, then went forward in another rush, stopped short, snarled, and took courage again. His leap brought him past the niche; and the sidewinder, after the fashion of his kind, struck without warning or coiling. There is nothing swifter than the strike of a sidewinder—but the coyote saw the lurking death just in time. A frantic yap of fear broke from his jaws. He gave a desperate twist sidewise in midleap—a doubling-up of his body that evaded the reptile’s blow—and in mad panic came down and leaped again, blindly. He landed squarely in the matted cholla.
Agonized howls rent the air, and sticks and bones and odd objects from the pack-rat’s nest were hurled about; the coyote became a whirlwind of furry agony from which proceeded howl upon howl of anguish. Then, tail between legs, wailing to high heaven with every leap, the wretched coyote went down the cañon like a streak and was gone.
Tompkins caught up the stone under his hand and hurled it, then rose. Crushed, the sidewinder lay quivering. A glittering object had caught the eye of Tompkins, and now he raked it forth from the cholla with a long stick. It was one of the mass of objects which had formed the rat’s nest, flung about by the agonized flurry of the coyote. When he had it within reach, Tompkins picked it up and stood staring at it, incredulity and horror mingling in his eyes. It was a small tarnished cigarette case of silver, and upon it he made out the initials “A. R.”
“The case I gave Alec for Christmas two years ago!”
The words died on his lips. It was the property of his vanished brother Alec Ramsay. Holding the case in his hand, he stared over the desolate, empty cañon until the heat of the sun roused him. He stooped, donned his pith helmet, and then looked again at the metal case. Mechanically he pressed the spring, which refused to work. Taking out his knife, Tompkins pried the case open—and beneath the spring-holder discovered a folded paper, on which was scrawled in pencil the writing of his brother.
His blurred eyes cleared. At the top was written:
Send this to Pat Ramsay, Glendale Apts. Denver.
And below, scrawled more sharply, but ending with an uncertain dash:
Dear Pat: Forgot to mail this. Too late. They got me. Shot through lungs. 3 men in party. Bad gang here. All located Hourglass Cañon, N. E. of here. Box cañon. Cholos and whites. Sidewinder—
That was all. Lips compressed, Tompkins read and reread this fateful message, which now he knew to be a message from the dead. Then, in that cold certainty, he opened the folded paper and found it to be a deed, made out by Mesquite Harrison to Alec Ramsay.
“By glory—the deed to Alec’s mining property!” he ejaculated, as he conned the writing therein. Then, when he had finished reading, he folded up the deed, replaced it in the cigarette case, slipped the case into his pocket, and stood staring up the winding reaches of the green cañon.
That property was located in this very cañon. Stunned as he was by surprise heaped on surprise, he realized this only too clearly. His brother was dead. The property in question had been bought from Sidewinder Crowfoot for whom Mesquite Harrison had acted as a blind. It lay somewhere up there toward the mesa—marked by that split pink granite boulder, perfectly described in the deed as to bounds and extent. It was this identical cañon for which he had come searching so blindly. Had he gone on around the next bend, he would have found the boulder with its piñon trees.
Tompkins sank down and took his head between his hands, striving hard for sanity. His first impulses were not sane at all; they were murderous. His brain was seething in tumult. He was not red-headed for nothing.
By slow degrees his thoughts settled down into grim coherence. Now he knew what he had long ago presumed to be the case—that his brother was dead. But here in his pocket was evidence as to who was responsible. There was no direct evidence against Sidewinder Crowfoot, but Tompkins brushed this impatiently aside; he was perfectly convinced that Crowfoot was the man behind everything going on here.
“At the same time, I’ve got to be sane—got to be!” he thought desperately, fighting for self-control. “I can’t go off half-cocked. They’ve got brains. They’ll get me if I let out a peep. Nothing but my own brains will save me now, and if I don’t go slow, I’m a goner sure! This changes my whole program. Now I know everything—and it’s up to me to get busy. First thing to do is to get back to town and get this deed recorded—send it in by registered mail. The stage goes out in the morning, so any time will do for that. Chuckwalla City is the county seat; might run over there in the flivver, only I’d better see Sidewinder Crowfoot, get my money, and sever connections. And I’ll want a rifle, before I go up against that crowd in Hourglass Cañon, wherever it is. Then—”
He was abruptly startled from his reflections by an eager hail, and looked up to see Miss Gilman approaching, with Hassayamp trailing behind her. He had forgotten the girl, and now an exclamation of dismay broke from him. Then he rose, donning glasses and helmet again, and nervously lighted up his pipe.
“We didn’t see you till we were almost on top of you,” exclaimed Miss Gilman.
“Were you asleep? What makes your face look so white?”
“A touch o’ sun, madam. No, I was not asleep. I was watching the peregrinations of yonder pack-rat. Not so fast, Mr. Foster—there is a large crotalus cerastes just by your left foot.”
“A which?” demanded Hassayamp, by no means pleased to see the professor.
“I believe you would term the reptile a sidewinder—”
“Oh, my gosh!” Hassayamp saw the dead snake and did an acrobatic stunt that removed him some distance away, while a revolver came out in his hand.
“Don’t shoot!” said Tompkins. “He’s dead. I killed him.”
“Why in hell didn’t you say so first?” snapped Hassayamp angrily. “What you doin’ up this-a-way? Thought you was headin’ into the sink-holes?”
“I changed my mind,” said Tompkins. He showed Miss Gilman the pack-rat’s nest. “That’s worth seeing. I have a particular reason for asking you to remember it. But may I inquire whither you two are heading?”
“Up the cañon to look at a chicken-ranch site,” said the girl, glancing from him to the nest and back again. “Will you come along? Or don’t you feel well? Really, you looked almost ghastly at first, Mr. Tompkins!”
“Reckon the climb would be too blamed hard on the Puffesser, ma’am,” struck in Hassayamp, who did not desire company. “And there aint no bugs up there.”
“All the more honor in discovering some, sir! I accept your invitation, madam, and shall accompany you a little way.”
“We’ve brought lunch along, if you’ll join us,” invited Miss Gilman, starting off again with Tompkins at her side. He glanced around and saw that Hassayamp had paused to wipe a dripping brow and bite off a fresh chew, and was momentarily out of earshot. Swiftly, he took the cigarette case from his pocket and passed it to the girl.
“Open this and read it—quick, now! I found it in that rat’s nest. When I tell you my real name is Pat Ramsay, you’ll be able to guess why I came here—and whether my warning was well founded. Read the deed carefully, then see whether the place you’re going to buy corresponds with it. Quickly! I’ll hold this rascal engaged. Read and give it back to me. I must get back to town at once.”
With this rapid utterance, he turned abruptly from the girl and walked back to Hassayamp, halting the latter’s advance with upraised hand.
“Mr. Foster!” he said solemnly. “May I inquire, sir—ah, that is a very interesting creature on your collar, very interesting indeed!”
Hassayamp screwed his head to look at himself, but could see nothing.
“What is it?” he demanded nervously. “A beautiful little creature, peculiar to our deserts,” said Tompkins in bland accents. “Undoubtedly it has sought refuge from the sun under your shirt-collar. You know, of course, that the solpugid is really an insect, having tracheal tubes instead of the spider’s book lungs—”
“A spider!” exclaimed Hassayamp. “Git it off’m me, Puffesser, quick!”
“Not a spider at all, my dear sir, and quite harmless, I assure you, despite local superstition. Ah, there it goes about your collar—no wonder the dear little creatures are called wind-scorpions or vinegaroons—”
“A matavenado—wow! My gosh, git him off’m me!” Hassayamp let out a yell and began to claw at himself. “I’m a dead man—git him off’m me—”
Tompkins seized him and brushed vigorously at his back.
“There—he’s gone. Pay no more attention to the matter, I implore you. I was about to ask whether you ever indulge in spiritous liquors, Mr. Foster? In such case, I have in my pocket a small vial of medicinal whisky. I understand that it is the custom in the desert to offer a drink—”
Hassayamp, who like many another man with slight experience of the harmless but frightful-looking vinegaroons believed them to be deadly creatures, was pale with emotion. And with more than emotion, too.
“If you got a drink, Puffesser,” he implored, “for gosh sake give it here! I swallered my plug.”
Tompkins produced a small pocket flask and began to unscrew it. Hassayamp became yet more pale and agitated.
“Oh, gosh!” he groaned. “I’ll never eat no more tobacker—”
He reached out and took the flask. He sniffed it, and into his melancholic eyes came a glow of warmth and happiness. Tompkins beamed upon him, as he lifted the flask.
“I forgot to mention, Mr. Foster, that you must use your mustache as a strainer, because in that whisky I am preserving a very fine specimen of rock scorpion which I recently discovered, and I should be very sorry to have it lost—”
Hassayamp jerked the flask from his lips. He looked at the Professor with slowly distending eyes, then thrust the flask at him; and, with one agonized groan, retired among the near-by boulders.
Tompkins turned and rejoined Miss Gilman.
“Hassayamp will rejoin you shortly,” he said. “He unfortunately swallowed his chew of tobacco—an accident which will unnerve the strongest man, I assure you—” The girl looked at him with strained and anxious eyes.
“But this—this paper! Do you mean to tell me that this man Alec Ramsay was your brother?”
Tompkins nodded quietly. “Yes, Miss Gilman. I came here to trace him—and by a stroke of sheer luck I found this cigarette case. You have read that deed? Then I advise you to go on up the cañon and see if the description fits. I haven’t been up there. Be very careful to say nothing to Hassayamp about this. I’ll see you tonight, if I may, and we’ll talk over what is to be done. Now I must get off—you’d better keep a sharp lookout for rattlers among these rocks. Don’t wait for Hassayamp; he’ll be along as soon as he’s able. Hasta la vista!”
She made no response, but stood gazing after him thoughtfully as he turned and departed.