“Any other ideas?” Radnor asked.  “Governor is upset I haven’t arrested the guilty parties yet.  I have no idea who they are.  That’s assuming there’s a guilty party, not a poison geyser.  Can’t arrest Yosemite, even if it kills someone sometimes.”

“One.” Winston smiled.  “Is there a surveying place that owes a favor you can call in?  I need the height of something measured.”

“Spencer and Sons,” Radnor answered.  For once, he thought, Winston had asked a simple question.  “Tell them I sent you.  Three streets down, hang a left, about half a block down on the right.”

Spencer and Sons had a modest sign hanging out beyond their awnings.  The hum of electric fans filled the air inside.  Several younger men, and a younger woman, were seemingly hard at work at desks. An older man sat in back, his desk on a modestly raised platform.  He waved  at Winston, summoning him.

Winston, hat in hand, walked swiftly to the rear of the room.

“Yes, Deputy? I hope nothing is wrong here,” the older man said.

“Hello.  I’m Winston Cooper.  The Sheriff, Radnor Cooper, is my grandfather.  He sent me.”

“And I am James Spencer,” the older man said as he stood.  “I own this establishment.  Why did Radnor send you?”

“I’m in charge of investigating the blasted heath,” Winston explained.  “Gramps, Sheriff Cooper, gave me the job. He thinks I went to Harvard so I know everything.  Not hardly.  But I have a surveying problem, so he said I should ask you for help, if you’d be willing.  It’s one height measurement, no more, and can be done from town.”