Their man was gone, but the narrow hoof prints of a mule, mixed with those of huge hob-nailed boots, could be plainly followed in the sand.

Here they picked up the trail and held to it steadily till the point was reached where, instead of tending southward it swerved abruptly to the east.

The men could hardly believe their eyes.
"It ain't reason," exclaimed the sheriff.

"What in thunder is he up to?
This beats me.

Cutting out into Death Valley at this time of year." "He's heading for Gold Mountain over in the Armagosa, sure." The men decided that this conjecture was true.