It was not much of a clue that he had fallen upon by chance, but Luck was not one to wait until he was slapped in the face with a fact.

He had intended swinging back through Arizona, where in certain parts cattle still were wild enough to bunch up at sight of a man afoot.

His questioning of the dried little man had not been born of any concrete purpose, but of the range man's plaint in the abstract.

Still-- "Say, brother, what's the Flying U's home town ?" he called after the dried little man with his amiable, Southern drawl.
"Huh?
Dry Lake.

Yuh taking this train ?" "So long--taking it for a ways, yes." Luck hurried down to where a kinky-haired porter stood apathetically beside the steps of his coach.
Dry Lake?
He had never heard of the place, but he could find out from the railroad map or the conductor.