simple feat he
had often performed in idle moments in the woods up home.

Dismounting, he lowered the bridle rein over Babe's head, and sat down
on the ground. He took out Uncle Sebastian's letter, and with his
pocket-knife slit the envelope till it provided him with a square of
paper. He laid the worn original--a yellow piece of tough sheepskin
paper--on a flat rock beside him. He took a cartridge from his belt
and began to copy the reddish writing.

He had just completed the task when there came a sudden terrific roar
in his ears, and before he knew what was happening a desert twister had
swept down upon him in all its fury.

It passed swiftly, and through half-blinded eyes Hiram saw that the
original had been whisked from the rock on which it had lain as if by
magic.

Fortunately he had held to his copy instinctively; but he had not
compared it with the original. He might have made some small but vital
mistake. Away over the desert twisted the miniature cyclone, and he
knew that, spinning around with it, was the sheepskin. Rather
foolishly in his excitement he grabbed his six-shooter from its holster
and slapped it down upon his copy to protect it from another such
catastrophe, and, still half-blinded, vaulted to the saddle and set the
mare at a dead run in the wake of the whirlwind.

Then it was that Al Drummond, who had been slowly creeping through the
greasewood bushes toward Hiram, arose with a yelp of triumph and ran to
the weighted-down copy of the precious directions.

Out there in the whirlwind the original was fleeing rapidly away from
the frantic rider, with the chances many to one that it would not be
recovered. Here in Drummond's hand was the only copy in existence,
except the one already in his and Lucy's possession. It was plain that
Hiram had not previously made another copy, else why would he have
stopped here on the desert to draft this one? Also, by the same token,
it was plain that Hiram had not memorized the contents. Basil Filer
might have done so, it was true; but, then, Tehachapi Hank would attend
to Basil Filer.

Quickly Drummond stooped and touched the blaze of a match to the
envelope, and in a few minutes only a crinkled bit of black, charred
paper lay on the ground.

"Pete!" he called, and from the greasewood another man arose and
hurried toward him.

"Look!" Drummond cried exultantly, pointing to the burned paper.
"There's what's left of the copy he was making. And