could hide behind any of these sand rolls and pot us crossing the
sinks; but if they are not at the end of their tether, why don't they
hustle and get out of sight? If they aren't played out, they could
outride us in half a day."

The old man was shading his eyes and gazing across the sun glare.
Wayland noticed that he was steadying himself in the saddle by the
pummel.

"Is my eye playing me tricks, Wayland; or do A see something stuck on
yon bush along the way? First glance, it looks like the leaf of a note
book. Keep looking, it might be a tent a couple of miles away. That
used to happen when we were buildin' bridges in the Rockies. Surveyors
crossing upper snows would stick up a message in neck of a ginger ale
bottle: then, when we'd come along with the line men after trampin' the
snow for hours, we'd mistake the thing for a man with a white hat till
we almost tumbled over the bottle. Is it the Desert playin' me tricks,
Wayland; or do A see something? Look, . . . where that bit of brush
grows against the lava rock there."

Wayland's glance ran along the trail; and for an instant, the writhing
sun glare played the same trick with his own vision. Something a dirty
white quivered above the black lava table like the loose canvas top of
a tented wagon. The Ranger side-stepped the trail for a different
angle of refraction. The object blurred, then reappeared, a leaf from
a note book not thirty yards away. Wayland went quickly forward. He
was aware as he walked that the shrivelled earth heaved and sank so
that he had the sensation of staggering. It was a dirty leaf from a
note book fouled by the Desert winds and lodged in the sage brush.
Then, he looked twice. It was not lodged. It was stuck down in the
branches secure against the wind. The ranger pulled the thing off.
The under side showed tobacco stains. On the upper were scrawled in
heavy pencil; _By. 20 ml du est if yu don't cath upp hit itt est flagg
midnite frate carrie yu mine sitty_.

"Railway twenty miles due East," translated Wayland. "That is probably
true. I think there is a branch line runs a hundred miles in to Mine
City. If you don't catch up, hit it East, flag the midnight freight,
she'll carry you to Mine City. Well? What do you make of it? Did
they leave it; or did some body else? If it had been there long, the
wind would have torn it to tatters."

"Let me see it." The old man turned it over in his hand. "Evidently
left to