But nobody rode after Bailey Austin. Huntoon Rogers pointed out that a telephone call to the sheriff at Las Vegas would be far more effective than any wild dash after a man with more than half an hour’s start of us.
As a matter of fact, Rogers seemed suddenly to lose interest in the pursuit of Austin. “Either you catch him or you don’t,” he said. “Meantime there’s something else Joe Hibbard and I can be doing. Two are enough to go. Come on, Joe.”
It was some twenty miles from Death Valley Junction over to the site of the ghost camp of Greenwater in a rugged canyon in the eastern slope of the Black Mountains. Rogers and I went alone. He managed to shove Turner and Pine and d**k Stocker upon Otis Barton for the afternoon, and we left them at the lunch counter in the hotel still discussing
