as so many of them did. They pushed on farther west, planning to join the settlement in Nevada that was set up in 1849. It’s not clear whether they never got there, or whether they got there and turned back. The last anyone ever heard about them, they were in Idaho. Mormon Crossing was where they forded the Lost River.”

“What do you mean—the last anybody heard of them?” Mike wanted to know.

Sandy threw up his hands. “They vanished. The theory is the Indians massacred them. But nobody knows for sure.”

“They were massacred, all right,” declared Joe, staring off into space. “Every last one of them was killed.”

Sandy frowned in bewilderment. “How do you know that?”

Joe looked up sharply. “What?”

“I said, how do you know? There weren’t any records. I asked.”

“Oh,” said Joe, reaching for another cigarette. “I mean, that’s the way it must have happened. It was pretty wild country then, and it all belonged to my people. I’m afraid they didn’t take too kindly to strangers.”

“In any event,” said Sandy, changing the subject, “that’s how Mormon Crossing got its name.”

“And that’s where we’re going,” said Mike, throwing himself back on the hammock. “Sounds like a real garden spot. Any of your relatives still hang around there, Joe? Let me know and I’ll keep out of their way.”

Joe grinned and shook his head. “We’re all nice and tame now, Mike,” he said.

“You never go on the warpath any more?” Mike made it sound as if he were disappointed.

“Just little ones. We kinda yell in whispers.”

“To keep in practice, you mean?”

“That’s it,” said Joe, throwing back his head in a laugh. “Then we’re always ready in case another movie company wants to hire us.”

“Don’t take any jobs for a month, Joe,” Mr. Cook said as he leaned over to knock the ashes out of his pipe. “You’re all booked up.”

“Suits me.”

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