I'll have her all primed up about the location—you sell it to her. Take her up the Chuckwalla road, then off to Pinecate mesa and up the cañon to that big boulder. Sell her the same ground we sold that Ramsay fool. There'd ought to be water in it right now, and it'll look mighty pretty. Sell her any location she picks out. Sabe?"
"All right," said Hassayamp. "And ye needn't worry much over that bug-hunter. He's jest a natural-born fool."
"Maybe," was the response. "But don't be too durned sure."
SIDEWINDER'S doubts would have been verified could he have seen Professor Tompkins at the same moment. Tompkins had removed goggles and helmet, to reveal snapping blue eyes which looked anything but weak, and close-cropped hair that spelled trouble. Also, from beneath his shirt he had produced an automatic pistol, and was now carefully examining its load. When he spoke to himself, his voice lacked all the precision and clipped utterance it had displayed in public.
"Confound it, there's one thing I sure overlooked!" he was musing as he frowned at a silver plate set into the butt of the pistol. "If I take it off, dust will get into everything; if I leave it on, I'm running risks. Well, guess I'll run risks! If I need you, my friend, I'll sure need you real bad."
The initials on the silver plate were P. A. R.—which by no stretch of the imagination could be made to fit the name Tompkins.
CHAPTER II
THE usually free-and-easy dining-room of the Stovepipe House was hushed and uneasy when supper came around, before the unwonted presence of a strange female. Tompkins had a table to himself, and at the next table was Miss Gilman; there were only two other occupied tables.
Tompkins was interested in his fellow-pilgrim. She was a young woman; she was possessed of an indoor complexion; and if not exactly beautiful she had an air of character and firmness; when she smiled, indeed, as she did whenever Haywire came to her table with his tray, a dancing light came into her eyes, and Haywire was straightway confused and flustered. Seated with his wife at another table was Hassayamp, and Tompkins observed that the proprietor addressed his better half in a tone of voice intended to reach other ears.
"Marier, we got to improve on Manuela's cookin' 'fore next week, when them road-workmen git here. I aint stuck on Mex cookin' my own self. We'll be right crowded up with folks workin' on the highway next week. Mose Pincus tells me to-day there's a feller name o' Rosenblum comin' in from Meteorite, goin' to open up a army goods store for this here district; wants him a shack big enough to hold six kids and a missus, and a store front. Speakin' as the president of the Stovepipe Springs chamber o' commerce, I'd say this here town is started on her boom. They tell me Sagebrush Beam weighed in a right [qu]art o' dust today, too. Wouldn't s'prise me a mite if a rush'd start this way that'd (illegible text)de Gold Hills a mile! Dang it, I wisht we didn't have to ship in these here aigs; somehow, they don't taste like aigs should, as I remember 'em."
Miss Gilman departed, and thereafter Hassayamp essayed no more information at large. Tompkins, who was decidedly hungry, was the last out of the dining-room. He came through the post office lobby, performed the delayed ceremony of registering, and was then escorted outside to the street by Hassayamp. They found Miss Gilman standing under the tin sun-shade and looking up at the glorious sunset that flooded all the sky with gold and scarlet. She turned at their approach, and Hassayamp performed the introductions.
"Miss Ethel Gilman, lemme make you acquainted with the Puffesser. You folks want to make yourselves to home in Stovepipe Springs. We don't put on no airs here, and everybody's sociable. Miss Gilman, she figgers on startin' a chicken-ranch and settlin' in our midst, and I dunno but what we might make her our school-teacher. This time next week we'd ought to have six Rosenblums, and we got four little Garcias right now, and Manuela tells me her brother is liable to come over from Chuckwalla City next month, and he's got five more. That looks right healthy, don't it? Then take the old Alcora Dance Hall down the street, it'd make a right smart school, if we fix her up and spill a little paint around and so forth. The Puffesser is likewise int'rested in hen chickens, Miss Gilman. He's lookin' up bugs right now, but—what did you say your name was, Perfesser?"
Tompkins cleared his throat and bowed to the young woman.
"Percival Henry J. Tompkins, entirely at your service, madam. May I solicit the pleasure of your company in a short walk, to breathe the inspiring evening air and view the noble aspect of the Creator's handiwork in the heavens?"
"Gosh!" murmured Hassayamp in awe. Miss Gilman gave Tompkins a curious glance, as though wishing to peer past those tinted goggles; a smile was in her eyes, as she made demure assent.
"Thank you, I'd enjoy showing you the sights. You just arrived today?"
"Only this afternoon, madam," returned Tompkins. "Mr. Foster, if you apprehend any specimens of crotalus cerastes in the near future, I should be glad if you would confine and preserve them for me."
"I'd sure like to, Puffesser," said Hassayamp, blinking, "but we aint got a bug in the house. If you was to go up to Garcia's, you might have some luck."
Tompkins waved his hand, and strode off beside Miss Gilman, who seemed rather red in the face.
NEITHER of them broke the silence. They passed down the street, came to the fast-disappearing rows of ancient buildings, relics of boom days, and presently were walking along the open desert, following the white road that went straight as a die across the horizon. The silence became oppressive, until suddenly Tompkins chuckled and spoke in his natural voice. It was a drawling, rather whimsical voice, and drew a swift glance from the girl.
"Our friend Hassayamp is a human phonograph," he said.
"You'll go too far one of these days," said Miss Gilman. Tompkins stopped short and stared at her.
"Eh? Just what do you mean?"
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the girl sharply, yet with a laugh in her eyes. "That red hair and your natural voice and the shape of your head don't go with your assumed character, Mr. Tompkins. Take off those glasses and let me see what you look like. And stop fidgeting with that pipe in your pocket. Take it out and smoke. I'd like you to."
Tompkins broke into a laugh, reached up and removed the goggles, and met the curious regard of Miss Gilman.
"What do you wear them for?" she demanded. "You look better without 'em."
"Protection," he drawled, bringing forth his pipe. "You're an observant young woman, but I trust fervently that you'll keep your observations to yourself. I look very much like another man, and do not care to be recognized for him—or mistaken for him."
The girl laughed. "You don't look like a criminal, Mr. Tompkins!"
"I'm not. I'm really a mammalogist. Now, everybody here is positive that a bug-hunter is crazy, so I'm making it easy all around by playing up to the part. You, however, don't look like a chicken-raiser."
"But I am—at least, that's what I'm going to be. I've come from Los Angeles to start a ranch here. Land is cheap; there's no fog; the climate is ideal, and for a while I can sell all I can raise right here in town."
"D'you mean it?" asked Tompkins incredulously.
"Of course I do. The prospect looks a whole lot better to me than the prospect of your finding any animals or bugs out on
