machine, was a small, lank individual, as brown as an Indian and as
wrinkled as a crocodile. The driver in the car addressed him shortly.

"I wonder if you can help me put on a tire?"

The lank little host regarded him quietly, then looked at the women and
drew his hand across his mouth.

"Wal, I dunno," he answered. "I've set a tire and I've set a hen, but I
wouldn't like to tell ye what was hatched."

The girl in the tonneau laughed in frank delight--a musical outburst that
flattered the station host tremendously. The man at the wheel was
already alighting.

"You'll do," he said. "My name is Bostwick. I'm on my way to Goldite,
in a hurry. It won't take us long, but it wants two men on the job."

He had a way of thrusting his disagreeable tasks upon his fellow beings
before they were prepared either to accept or refuse a proposition. He
succeeded here so promptly that the girl in the car made no effort to
restrain her amusement. She was radiantly smiling as she leaned above
the wheel where the two men were presently at work.

In the midst of the toil a sound of whistling came upon the air. The
girl in the auto looked up, alertly. It was the Toreador's song from
Carmen that she heard, riotously rendered. A moment later the whistler
appeared--and an exclamation all but escaped the girl's red, parted lips.

Mounted on a calico pony of strikingly irregular design, a horseman had