The sun glared furnace-hot on the Boneyard. Sweat beaded across the cowboys’ brows. Slingshot hitched up his pants and spit. The spit never made it to the ground; the scorching sun had sucked it dry in a bullwhip second.

“Did you see that?” asked Slingshot. “It must be over a hundred degrees out here.”

“A hundred and one, at least,” said Burp. “Hey, you think the Ghost Cat is watching us right now? Or maybe it only comes out after dark.”

“Probably only after dark,” said Slingshot.

The cowboys rode slowly to Camel Rock, looking in every direction. Three vultures circled overhead in search of a meal: something stinky, something dead.

“One way or the other, we’re getting our bunkhouse back,” said Slingshot. “Either we scare the Scorpions out, or we buy ’em out. So we need bones or loot.”

“Yep!” Burp said, secretly hoping it would be loot.

The cowboys rode past leaning shelves of rock and tall cacti.

“What if the Ghost Cat is waiting to jump us?” asked Burp. “What if the Ghost Cat and Windy have teamed up? We could be vulture chow before sundown.”

“Come on, Burp, stop being a desert turtle.”

“What if we die of thirst? Or what if there’s a wild horse stampede and we’re trampled into dust? It could happen, you know,” said Burp.

The cowboys arrived at a stand of dead trees and came to a stop. Skull Valley lay before them. Slingshot pointed to the wash past Dry Springs. “Map says that’s where the loot and bones are.”

“This place gives me the creeps,” said Burp.

“Do you want to let the Scorpions steal Rattlesnake Ranch, Burp? Do ya?”

“No!” said Burp, inching closer to Slingshot.

Finally, after rounding another bumpy rock, the cowboys stepped into Skull Valley. Broken stones and hollowed-out, fallen cacti littered the desert floor. Crooked shadows stretched across the sand.

“It feels like a graveyard,” said Burp. “And turn around — we can’t even see our houses anymore.”

“Knock it off, Burp. We’re not even a mile from home.”

From somewhere just ahead of them, a blood-curdling screech erupted, then echoed off the canyon walls.

“Ghost Cat!” yelped Burp. “Let’s get out of here.”

“We’re safe in the daytime,” said Slingshot, trying to sound sure of himself.

“Think there are any snakes out here?” asked Burp.

“They’re everywhere,” said Slingshot. “Under rocks, behind cacti, slithering sideways in the sand.” He mopped his face with his bandanna. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

The boys kicked over every small rock. They poked into every nook and cranny. Sweat almost burned the eyes right out of their heads. Burp jumped a bit every time a little lizard or bug scurried across their path.

“Boll weevil!” said Slingshot. “My mouth is as dry as a dust devil.”

Burp pointed at a shimmering patch in the distance. “Look!” he said. “A lake!”

“That’s a mirage!” said Slingshot. “Your eyes are playing tricks on you. Let’s take swigs of water from our canteens and keep watching for snakes.”

Burp took another gulp of water, and Slingshot loaded his slingshot with a pebble from the ground. If a sidewinder or diamondback jumped out — thwack! — he’d give it to them right between the eyes.

“Hold up,” said Burp. “There’s a saddlebag full of sand in my boot.” Burp plopped down on a big rock and yanked off his boot. As he was emptying it, he felt a tickle on his bare foot. He looked down and . . . froze. His lips were moving, but no words were coming out. Then, finally, “Giant . . . hairy . . . scorpion!” he squeaked, pointing at the dusty-brown critter perched on top of his left foot.

Slingshot acted fast. He snapped off a shot. The scorpion went flying! When it finally landed, that scorpion spun in a circle, then dashed off under a yucca plant to hide. Slingshot whooped and reloaded, but Burp was hopping up and down on one foot and clutching his shin. “It got me! It got me! I’m done for.” Burp crumpled to the ground, still holding his shin.

“Let me see,” said Slingshot. On Burp’s left shin was a shiny red bump.

“I can feel the poison rushing through my blood,” croaked Burp. “It’s heading for my heart. I’m a goner.” Burp jumped up, clapped his hands over his chest, and took off running for home. Minus one boot.

“Hey! Wait up!” Slingshot yelled. “Burrrrrp! Your boot!”

It was too late. Burp was tearing across the desert floor roadrunner-fast and showed no sign of stopping.

When Slingshot finally caught up to Burp, his double cousin was facedown on the ground in his backyard, still clutching his chest.

Looking up at Slingshot with hound-dog eyes, he whispered, “Take good care of Lightning for me when I’m gone.”

“Burp, you’re not going anywhere. That’s no scorpion bite. The only thing that got you was the pebble from my slingshot. There’s no broken skin. I swear! Take a look for yourself.”

Burp examined the angry red bump on his leg. “You zinged me? Why’d you do that?”

“I was saving your life, remember? From the big hairy deadly scorpion.”

“Oh,” said Burp, sitting up. “Ouch!” He plucked a cactus spine from his big toe. “Well, Big Jim sure was right about one thing.”

“What’s that?” asked Slingshot.

Burp yanked his boot out of Slingshot’s hand. “That Boneyard is no place for tenderfoots.”