In the lobby of the inn we encountered Otis Barton, who had just come up from the assembly hall on a lower terrace where he had delivered the usual lecture of the park department upon the natural wonders of Death Valley. He espied us at once and came over to where we had halted near the desk.
“Well,” he began briskly, a half smile on his lips, his brown eyes alert, “you went down to Pahrump Valley, did you?”
“We did.”
“What did you find down there?”
Rogers drew him to one side before he answered.
“Plenty,” he said, his voice guarded. “If murder is plenty.”
“It is plenty,” responded the ranger. “You really think it’s murder?”
“Here’s what we found,” Rogers began, and told him in detail of our discoveries in the isolated valley.
“Nothing to indicate who he was?” Barton pressed at one
