Cactus and Rattlers Here’s a real thriller for you—a double-action, big-caliber novelette of adventure in the West, by a writing man who knows his business, the distinguished author of “Sixteen Miles,” “Brome’s Luck,” “Shadows of Saffron,” and other noted stories. Cactus and Rattlers by H. Bedford Jones At least twice a year, when he came in to Stovepipe Springs to get his mail and flour, Sagebrush answered to the cognomen of George Beam. This was one of the occasions. To his acute consternation, he had discovered that “The Springs” was crowded with life and gayety, for there was a strange female stopping at the hotel, and another pilgrim was coming in by stage this same afternoon. Sagebrush presented a general vista of whiskers, red nose and nondescript garments, bleached by sun and white with alkali dust; yet it was his proud boast that he was the only man between Death Valley and the big bend of the Colorado who kept abreast of the times. Subscribing to several weekly magazines, he came in once every six months to get the accumulated copies. Then he sat down and answered the advertisements, requesting circulars. Thus he had a burro-load of magazines to read for six months, then a burro-load of circulars wherewith to while away the next six months—an involved and vicious circle in which Sagebrush was always trying to catch up with himself. He kept the post office on the map, however. “Now, dog-gone it,” he observed to his three patient burros, as he tied on his grub and magazines and a bundle of postal cards, “you and me got to hike out again in order to git our correspondence goin’ in peace! Dad blame this dad-blamed town! What in hell is folks crowding in this country for, anyhow?” Haywire Johnson, assistant postmaster and general utility man about the hotel, showed up in time to answer this query. “Hi, Sagebrush! Aint you stoppin’ over in town? Things is pickin’ up right fast. We got a settler yesterday, and we got a tourist comin’ today.” “That’s jest it,” growled Sagebrush. “A feller can’t have no peace no more. That makes three women in town now, not countin’ them females over to José Garcia’s shack.” “Well, listen!” Haywire laid his hand on the desert rat’s arm. “Where’d you get that dust you weighed in over to the store, eh? Let’s you and me go in and talk, Sagebrush. If you aint got no objections to wettin’ down them whiskers with a mite o’ licker, s’pose we go inside and arbitrate.” Sagebrush grunted, hitched his three burros to the rail, and vanished in the hotel. Once Stovepipe Springs had been a boom mining town, but now it was dead and dried out. To west and north lay desert, to the south lay more desert and the Colorado. To the east was the Chuckwalla Range—in it and beyond it rich cattle country with water galore. Here in Stovepipe Springs, and over across the Chuckwallas, men talked different languages, had different customs and were themselves different. No cow-men came over this way unless they were well ahead of the sheriff; and Stovepipe Springs, having its own railroad connections at a distance of twenty miles, was supremely independent of the remainder of the county, and heartily despised all ranchers and cow-men. Here, besides the hotel, were five inhabited houses and two stores, a bank and a garage. Had it not been for the literary enterprise of Sagebrush Beam, even the post office would have long since been wiped off the map. The town was a point of call for desert rats, and being at present on a detour of the cross-continent automobile highway, had more business than its looks would warrant. Its inhabitants lived only for the day when some one would strike it rich and bring back the boom. It was three in the afternoon and blazing hot when the exhaust whistle of the autostage announced its arrival. The entire dozen persons of the local constituency gathered to watch. One of these onlookers was a small man in rusty and dilapidated attire. He stood barely five feet six, his face was a grayish mask from which shone two bright and glittery gray eyes, and there was a stoop to his shoulders—but he was not crowded. He was not only the most flourishing, but he was the most respected citizen of all Chuckwalla County. The stage whooped out a final whistle and came to rest amid a whirl of dust in front of the hotel. The driver flung off a mail-sack, handed off an empty express-box, then swung down and vanished abruptly into the hotel. His solitary passenger, meantime, descended before the assembled gaze of Stovepipe Springs, staring around with unassumed interest. And Stovepipe Springs, after the first gasp, stared back—hard. The pilgrim was apparently a young man, though little could be seen of his features. He wore an enormous pith helmet which shaded his face, tinted yellow goggles which hid his eyes, and from the collar of his khaki coat to the tip of his nose was wound a bright green shawl which draped back over his shoulder. Just then Haywire and Sagebrush came out the side door of the hotel, and Sagebrush halted as though smitten. “My gosh, Haywire!” he exclaimed. “What was in that there licker? I never seen nothing like this before—not even from tequila! Is that thing really there?” “She is,” said Haywire, with a startled look. “Wait—it’s goin’ to talk!” The arrival had unwound the green shawl, to disclose a mouth and chin which were certainly square-cut enough for anyone. He glanced around the circle of staring faces, and his goggles fastened upon the little man in rusty attire. Toward him the newcomer stepped, met the glittery gray eyes, and spoke. “Am I correct in assuming that this is Stovepipe Springs?” he asked. “Yep,” returned the small man curtly. “Excellent! An admirable spot. I am Percival Henry J. Tompkins, a humble member of the American Society of Mammalogists, in search of material for a paper on the fauna of the great American desert.” Mr. Tompkins spoke in a precise, neatly clipped voice. “I seek a temporary domicile here—” “Git over to Mormon Wells, then,” snapped the small man. “You misapprehend my meaning,” said Mr. Tompkins patiently. “I seek rooms at your hotel, and a guide. I want a man who knows the desert, who can lead me to the haunts of its creatures. Particularly I desire to study the habits of the _crotalus cerastes_.” With a flick of his shoulders, the small man turned as though to leave. Mr. Tompkins reached out and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, unwarned by the gasp from those near by. “My dear sir, I am addressing you—” What happened was startling to see. The little man moved with a swiftness that the eye could not follow, then stood snarling, his gray mask of a face glittering with sheer malignity. Tompkins, knocked sprawling half across the road, rolled over, sat up, and then struggled to his feet. He stood blinking around. “That—er—that was a most remarkable thing!” he exclaimed in his precise tones. “Did somebody run into me?” With a sneer and a snap of his teeth, the little man turned and departed toward the bank, which he owned. Haywire drew the old desert rat hastily aside. “Look out! Sidewinder’s feelin’ mean today. Him and that female woman have been talkin’ chicken-ranches, I reckon. Oh, my gosh! Now that there mistake for a human is headin’ this-a-way—” Mr. Tompkins, indeed, seemed to sense a general lack of cordiality all around him, except in the gaping countenance of Sagebrush, whom he now approached. “My friend—” “Pilgrim, don’t bother me!” said Sagebrush defensively. “It jest can’t be true!” “I’ll pay three dollars a day to a man who knows the desert.” Sagebrush changed countenance. So did the remainder of Stovepipe Springs. There was a general forward movement, but the desert rat was the first to recover voice. “You’re done, pilgrim, you’re sure engaged! What was it you wanted to find?” “_Crotalus cerastes_. Undoubtedly you can introduce me to specimens?” Sagebrush swallowed hard, but had a reputation to sustain, and upheld it nobly. “You bet!” he announced promptly. “Lots o’ them specimens up around Marble Cañon, and over by Lost Waterhole I’ve seen ’em so thick you couldn’t hardly move without steppin’ on ’em. I’ll take you right where them things breed, Perfesser.” The “Perfesser” looked slightly startled, but nodded assent. “Very well; you are engaged. We shall have to hire an automobile.” “You got to see Sidewinder Crowfoot about that. He owns ’em all.” “Very well. Come to my room in an hour, when I have had a chance to remove the stains of travel. By the way, where is the hotel? I wrote to engage rooms, but see no hostelry.” “Right yere under your nose, Perfesser. Hassayamp is takin’ in the mail—thar he is. —Hey, Hassayamp! Meet my friend the Perfesser. This is Hassayamp Foster, Perfesser. The Perfesser’s a bug-hunter, Hassayamp, and wants a bed.” “My beds won’t help him none,” said Hassayamp, a lean and melancholic individual who came forward, chewing a ragged mustache. “I got a room for you, Puffesser.” “With bath,” said Tompkins. Hassayamp halted and blinked. “Bath? Good gosh, we don’t allow no washin’ in the springs this time o’ year! Got to use a cream separator to git enough drinkin’ water. Rains are over, but they aint filled the springs yet—not for another two weeks, I reckon.” “I refer, sir, to a bathroom attached,” explained Tompkins. “Well, there aint none,” said Hassayamp. “Whar’s your grips?” Two enormous and bulging suitcases, each as big as a small trunk, were in the stage boot, and Hassayamp hauled them out with antagonistic air, and led his victim away. The Stovepipe House was built for desert use, not for looks. The front building contained post office and hotel dining-room; and passing through this, Tompkins descended the rear steps and found two long adobe structures stretching in front of him, each divided into cells; between them drooped some parched flowers and shrubs. He was shown to his cell, a room twelve by twelve, furnished with all the comforts of home. “Don’t do no cussing nor singing after midnight,” warned Hassayamp as he shoved in the two enormous grips, “’cause a lady’s got the next room. When the bell rings for supper, you show up prompt; my old woman’s liable to be real ornery if folks don’t ’predate hot vittles. Two-fifty a day. What did you go tangle up with that old desert rat Sagebrush for? I’d ha’ been glad to pilot you around my own self. Int’rested in mines, are you? Don’t let him show you no specimens, Puffesser. That old rascal would salt hell and unload it on a pilgrim. Don’t you trust nobody around here but me. I got two quartz lodes and a placer location that’ll make your eyes water—” “Not interested in mines, thanks,” said Tompkins, cutting short the flow of talk. “If I saw a good chicken-ranch, I might invest, but not otherwise. Ever hear of anyone around these parts by the name of Ramsay? Alec Ramsay. Might have passed through here a year or so ago.” “Nope,” said Hassayamp, shaking his mustaches. “Well, if ye want anything, come and holler for it.” Hassayamp withdrew; in more haste than he had previously displayed, he ducked around the side of the hotel, rambled down the desert sands of the nominal alley, and in three minutes was rapping sharply at the back door of the adobe bank. This was opened to him by the small gray-faced man, who was no other than Sidewinder Crowfoot. Hassayamp slid inside and closed the door behind him. “Well?” rasped Sidewinder. “What’s up?” “That bug-hunter,” said Hassayamp agitatedly. “What ye think he said? That if he knowed where there was a good chicken-ranch, he might buy it!” A thin smile appeared in the gray mask. “That so? We’ll see about it.” “And he asked if I knowed anyone around here, a year back, name of Alec Ramsay.” The smaller man started, and his eyes glittered venomously. “So that’s it—so that’s it!” murmured Sidewinder. “I thought he didn’t act right natural. By gosh, I’ll look into him!” “Wa’n’t Ramsay the one,” began Hassayamp, “that bought that there claim from Mesquite up in Pinecate Cañon, and got mixed up with—” “Shut up!” snapped the other man suddenly. “Listen to me, now. I’ll attend to this gent myself, if he needs it. Let him run as far’s his hobbles will let, for a while. First we got to fix up Miss Gilman. You got to take her out day after tomorrow—_sabe_? I’ll have her all primed up about the location—you sell it to her. Take her up the Chuckwalla road, then off to Pinecate mesa and up the cañon to that big boulder. Sell her the same ground we sold that Ramsay fool. There’d ought to be water in it right now, and it’ll look mighty pretty. Sell her any location she picks out. _Sabe?_” “All right,” said Hassayamp. “And ye needn’t worry much over that bug-hunter. He’s jest a natural-born fool.” “Maybe,” was the response. “But don’t be too durned sure.” Sidewinder’s doubts would have been verified could he have seen Professor Tompkins at the same moment. Tompkins had removed goggles and helmet, reveal snapping blue eyes which looked anything but weak, and close-cropped red hair that spelled trouble. Also, from beneath his shirt he had produced an automatic pistol, and was now carefully examining its load. When he spoke to himself, his voice lacked all the precision and clipped utterance it had displayed in public. “Confound it, there’s one thing I sure overlooked!” he was musing as he frowned at a silver plate set into the butt of the pistol. “If I take it off, dust will get into everything; if I leave it on, I’m running risks. Well, guess I’ll run risks! If I need you, my friend, I’ll sure need you real bad.” The initials on the silver plate were P. A. R.—which by no stretch of the imagination could be made to fit the name Tompkins. CHAPTER II The usually free-and-easy dining-room of the Stovepipe House was hushed and uneasy when supper came around, before the unwonted presence of a strange female. Tompkins had a table to himself, and at the next table was Miss Gilman; there were only two other occupied tables. Tompkins was interested in his fellow-p’lgrim. She was a young woman; she was possessed of an indoor complexion; and if not exactly beautiful she had an air of character and firmness; when she smiled, indeed, as she did whenever Haywire came to her table with his tray, a dancing light came into her eyes, and Haywire was straightway confused and flustered. Seated with his wife at another table was Hassayamp, and Tompkins observed that the proprietor addressed his better half in a tone of voice intended to reach other ears. “Marier, we got to improve on Manuela’s cookin’ ’fore next week, when them road-workmen git here. I aint stuck on Mex cookin’ my own self. We’ll be right crowded up with folks workin’ on the highway next week. Mose Pincus tells me today there’s a feller name o’ Rosenblum comin’ in from Meteorite, goin’ to open up a army goods store for this here district; wants him a shack big enough to hold six kids and a missus, and a store front. Speakin’ as the president of the Stovepipe Springs chamber o’ commerce, I’d say this here town is started on her boom. They tell me Sagebrush Beam weighed in a right smart o’ dust today, too. Wouldn’t s’prise me a mite if a rush’d start this way that’d ride Gold Hills a mile! Dang it, I wisht we didn’t have to ship in these here aigs; somehow, they don’t taste like aigs should, as I remember ’em.” Miss Gilman departed, and thereafter Hassayamp essayed no more information at large. Tompkins, who was decidedly hungry, was the last out of the dining-room. He came through the post office lobby, performed the delayed ceremony of registering, and was then escorted outside to the street by Hassayamp. They found Miss Gilman standing under the sun-shade and looking up at the glorious sunset that flooded all the sky with gold and scarlet. She turned at their approach, and Hassayamp performed the introductions. “Miss Ethel Gilman, lemme make you acquainted with the Puffesser. You folks want to make yourselves to home in Stovepipe Springs. We don’t put on no airs here, and everybody’s sociable. Miss Gilman, she figgers on startin’ a chicken-ranch and settlin’ in our midst, and I dunno but what we might make her our school-teacher. This time next week we’d ought to have six Rosenblums, and we got four little Garcias right now, and Manuela tells me her brother is liable to come over from Chuckwalla City next month, and he’s got five more. That looks right healthy, don’t it? Then take the old Alcora Dance Hall down the street, it’d make a right smart school, if we fix her up and spill a little paint around and so forth. The Puffesser is likewise int’rested in hen chickens, Miss Gilman. He’s lookin’ up bugs right now, but—what did you say your name was, Perfesser?” Tompkins cleared his throat and bowed to the young woman. “Percival Henry J. Tompkins, entirely at your service, madam. May I solicit the pleasure of your company in a short walk, to breathe the inspiring evening air and view the noble aspect of the Creator’s handiwork in the heavens?” “Gosh!” murmured Hassayamp in awe. Miss Gilman gave Tompkins a curious glance, as though wishing to peer past those tinted goggles; a smile was in her eyes, as she made demure assent. “Thank you, I’d enjoy showing you the sights. You just arrived today?” “Only this afternoon, madam,” returned Tompkins. “Mr. Foster, if you apprehend any specimens of _crotalus cerastes_ in the near future, I should be glad if you would confine and preserve them for me.” “I’d sure like to, Puffesser,” said Hassayamp, blinking, “but we aint got a bug in the house. If you was to go up to Garcia’s, you might have some luck.” Tompkins waved his hand, and strode off beside Miss Gilman, who seemed rather red in the face. Neither of them broke the silence. They passed down the street, came to the fast-disappearing rows of ancient buildings, relics of boom days, and presently were walking along the open desert, following the white road that went straight as a die across the horizon. The silence became oppressive, until suddenly Tompkins chuckled and spoke in his natural voice. It was a drawling, rather whimsical voice, and drew a swift glance from the girl. “Our friend Hassayamp is a human phonograph,” he said. “You’ll go too far one of these days,” said Miss Gilman. Tompkins stopped short and stared at her. “Eh? Just what do you mean?” “Nonsense!” exclaimed the girl sharply, yet with a laugh in her eyes. “That red hair and your natural voice and the shape of your head don’t go with your assumed character, Mr. Tompkins. Take off those glasses and let me see what you look like. And stop fidgeting with that pipe in your pocket. Take it out and smoke. I’d like you to.” Tompkins broke into a laugh, reached up and removed the goggles, and met the curious regard of Miss Gilman. “What do you wear them for?” she demanded. “You look better without ’em.” “Protection,” he drawled, bringing forth his pipe. “You’re an observant young woman, but I trust fervently that you’ll keep your observations to yourself. I look very much like another man, and do not care to be recognized for him—or mistaken for him.” The girl laughed. “You don’t look like a criminal, Mr. Tompkins!” “I’m not. I’m really a mammalogist. Now, everybody here is positive that a bug-hunter is crazy, so I’m making it easy all around by playing up to the part. You, however, don’t look like a chicken-raiser.” “But I am—at least, that’s what I’m going to be. I’ve come from Los Angeles to start a ranch here. Land is cheap; there’s no fog; the climate is ideal, and for a while I can sell all I can raise right here in town.” “D’you mean it?” asked credulously. “Of course I do. The prospect looks a whole lot better to me than the prospect of your finding any animals or bugs out on the desert.” “You don’t know a whole lot about the desert, do you?” he asked, dryly. “No. Do you?” “A little.” Tompkins puffed at his pipe rather hard for a moment, frowning at the sunset, then he came to a halt, and turned to the girl with an air of decision. “See here, Miss Gilman, really I don’t want to intrude into your affairs, but I think that you’re going ahead rather blindly. Are you all alone here in town?” “Yes.” Her eyes dwelt on his strong, rather harsh features, with questioning scrutiny. “But I’ve lived on ranches, I’ve taught school, I have some money saved up—and really, Mr. Tompkins, I’m able to look out for myself.” “No, you’re not,” he said quietly. Suddenly a look came into his eyes that made the girl catch her breath, so furious and deeply filled with passion was it. “You’ve got to get out of here!” he exclaimed with abrupt anger in his voice. “You don’t know what sort of a place this is—what sort of men are centered around here! There’s a gang of the vilest murderers somewhere about Stovepipe Springs that ever saw the light of day! The whole place is a decoy-trap for the unwary—for people like you! If that town knew what my real name was, what my errand is here, my life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel.” Startled by his vehemence, sobered by his words; the girl met his gaze for a moment, then frowned. “Why do you speak this way?” she demanded calmly. “I think you’re far off the mark, Mr. Tompkins. I’ve met everybody since arriving yesterday. They’re good, simple people—ignorant if you like, but at heart really fine. I’m afraid you’re an un-American sort of person. Do you regard everybody outside of New York with the same savage intolerance? Do you think that because nobody speaks French in Stovepipe Springs, everybody is a poor hick?” Tompkins stared at her for a minute. “Good Lord—my dear girl, get me right!” he exclaimed. “I mean literally what I say. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I know what I’m talking about.” “What, then—bands of outlaws and robbers?” She smiled ironically, and the smile stung Tompkins. “Something like that, yes.” “Then I simply don’t believe you,” she said with quiet finality. “Shall we go back now?” “As you prefer. I hope you don’t have any cause to remember my warning with regret.” To this she made no response, and they returned in silence to the hotel, Tompkins inwardly cursing his very undiplomatic way of presenting the warning. Upon nearing the hostelry, they encountered Mose Pincus, an earnest, alert little man who kept the general store, and he immediately cornered Miss Gilman with a request that she send all orders for chicken equipment through his agency. Tompkins went on alone to his own place, and when the lamp was lighted, he picked up his newspaper and went definitely to work. He knew what to look for now. It was a Los Angeles paper, which he had bought on leaving the railroad at Meteorite because it was the latest sheet to be had. Now he searched the advertising columns, and after a moment chanced upon the very thing he sought. It was a large display advertisement, and after reading it, Tompkins clipped it out and then perused it more carefully and with keen appreciation. It read as follows: CHICKEN RANCHERS Come To Chuckwalla County! No California fogs in this State; an ideal climate for chickens. Stovepipe Springs will welcome you. Local demand for eggs is heavy. Not a chicken within a radius of thirty miles in one direction and 250 miles in all others. Off railroad but on State highway. Land from $1 to $50 per acre. Taxes so light they make you laugh. Correspondence invited. The Stovepipe Springs Chamber of Commerce will coöperate with you in every way; write the secretary, M. J. Crowfoot, First State Bank, Stovepipe Springs. Putting the clipping away in his pocket, Tompkins got his pipe going and puffed for a while in frowning reflection. At length he sighed. “Well, I suppose I can’t help her any—and I don’t know that I blame her for feeling as she does. To all appearance, this is a harmless little desert town and nothing else. I don’t even know that I’m right; haven’t a darned bit of proof to lay before her! But this Sidewinder Crowfoot sure lays a clever trap for suckers. Not a chicken around here, eh? He’s dead right, at that. What with coyotes, skunks, lynx and snakes, not to mention rats, any chickens would have a hard struggle. And the advertisement doesn’t mention water. Hm! I wonder how many poor flies have been drawn into this spider-net and sucked dry? And I wonder how many poor devils have gone out into that desert around here and never come back—like my brother Alec Ramsay?” He puffed on, a somber frown darkening his keen eyes. CHAPTER III When Percival Henry J. Tompkins, mammalogist, walked into the First State Bank the next morning, he wore his best professorial air. Moses J. Crowfoot, more generally known as Sidewinder, was his own banking force, and sat alone at a desk behind a grill which hedged off most of the bank. He was not afraid of robbers. No professional robber in the combined areas of Nevada, Utah and New Mexico would have dreamed of tackling the Stovepipe Springs bank, because Sidewinder Crowfoot was an old-timer who knew his business. Three amateurs had undertaken the job two years previously, and each of them received a forty-five slug squarely between the eyes. The nickname was highly appropriate. Like his namesake, Crowfoot was highly venomous, he struck without warning, and he struck to kill; he was not a pleasant man, and he did not care to be pleasant. He lived alone. In the old dim days, Sidewinder had been a monte dealer in the Alcora Dance Hall; when the law clamped down on gambling, he had owned the Oasis Saloon; when the law clamped down on liquor, he had gone into banking. Some people would claim this was natural evolution. He looked up at his visitor without speaking. Tompkins, entirely ignoring what had happened upon his arrival in town, came forward to the grill and smiled. “This, I believe, is Mr. Crowfoot? I have been referred to you, as owner of the local garage. I desire to rent an automobile with which to survey near-by areas of the great American desert and pursue my investigations of the fauna—” “Can’t be done,” said Sidewinder curtly. “We only got one rent car, and that’s engaged. The other’s a demonstrater, and we can’t rent it or we’d never sell it.” “Ah! Thank you very much indeed,” said Tompkins, and turned to the door. “In that case I had better buy it.” Before Sidewinder could call up any suitable retort, his visitor was gone to the garage next door; before Sidewinder could get there, money had changed hands and the shiny flivver reposing on the garage floor was the property of the Professor. Finding himself too late to prevent the purchase, Crowfoot put on his best air and engaged Tompkins in amiable talk, while the mechanic in charge filled the car with oil and gas and put in half a dozen water-bags. “Hassayamp was telling me,” observed the banker, “that you were askin’ about a man named Ramsay. Seems to me like I recall the feller. Friend of yours?” “A mere acquaintance,” said Tompkins. “I met him at Palmdale, on the other side of the Mohave, while I was engaged in a study of the curious flora over there. Poor fellow, I felt sorry for him! He had lost one eye, and was afflicted with tuberculosis, and was at the age of sixty-five with not a cent in the world. He mentioned that he thought of coming in this direction to locate, having been here some twenty years ago during the mining boom.” “Oh!” said Sidewinder, with a relieved air. “Then it aint the same one. The one who went through here last year was a right young feller, red-haired and active. If I was you, Perfesser, I’d get loose of that Sagebrush. He aint only a desert rat, and folks tell mighty queer stories about him. All desert rats are queer in the head, you know.” “Why—er—that’s very good of you, indeed!” said Tompkins gratefully. “Still, I have engaged the man, perhaps heedlessly, and must keep my promises for a certain time. I suppose, if I were to deposit my money and valuables with you, I’d be in no danger!” “Right good plan,” said Sidewinder. “Step into the bank, and we’ll arrange it.” Tompkins obediently retraced his steps, and when he displayed his two certified checks and his roll of loose bills, the banker became almost affable. Tompkins, meantime, was quite conscious that he was being closely studied, and did not hesitate to shove out all his chips and play the game of innocence. He agreed at once that the best scheme was to deposit all his money in care of Mr. Crowfoot, taking the latter’s receipt for it, and his air of eager gratitude was pleasant to behold. “Whom would you recommend as a guide?” he inquired, when the transaction was completed. “After a trip with the person I have engaged, I might find it advisable to take another cicerone.” “Right good idea,” said Mr. Crowfoot. “Hassayamp’s a good man—I tell you! There’s a feller will be in town next week. I’ll speak to him about it. Harrison, his name is—Mesquite Harrison.” A slight pallor crossed the face of Tompkins, but he responded gratefully: “By all means. Kindly engage him for me. I shall expect to use him at once, and thank you again for your kindness in the matter.” “Don’t mention it,” said Sidewinder, and grinned to himself when his caller had departed. There was no longer any doubt that the Professor was what Hassayamp proclaimed him—a natural-born fool, like all bug-hunters. No one else would have handed over his money so readily. Tompkins walked back to the hotel, and on the doorstep of his own cell found Sagebrush awaiting him. Inside, with the door closed, the desert rat chuckled. “I reckon Hassayamp is right uppity over losin’ the chance to guide ye, Perfesser,” he announced. “But you done jest right. Hassayamp don’t know nothin’ about the desert.” “No?” Tompkins lighted his pipe. “He lives here, doesn’t he?” “Sho! He’s like José Garcia; let a vinegaroon git on him, and he throws a fit. No sir, Hassayamp jest plumb aint a desert man. He knows a sight o’ locations. Him and Sidewinder have sold a hell of a lot, too. Folks buy a place and set awhile, and next time I come in to town, they’re gone. Thar’s cabins all over betwixt yere and the Chuckwallas, where the ground has been sold and deserted. Hassayamp hires fellers to prove up on homestead rights, then buys the homestead off’m ’em and sells it again. He aint no guide, though. All he knows is roads. Git him off’m the road, or show him a t’rant’ler in his blankets, and gosh! Hassayamp is worse’n a tenderfoot. Say, I heard a good one on him this trip!” Sagebrush chuckled again, spat on the floor, and scratched his whiskers. “Met up with two fellers in the Salt Pans—ol’ Hardrock Miller from Tucson, and another feller. Hardrock used to be a Mormon ’fore they run him out of Arizona for bein’ too durned Mormonistic. He tells me Hassayamp used to be one too, away over to St. John’s, ’bout fifteen year back. ’Cordin’ to him, Hassayamp vanished real sudden one night, and so did all the money belongin’ to the church, and several head of hosses belongin’ to other folks. May not be true, though. Hardrock Miller saved hisself from bein’ lynched once by tellin’ the truth, and aint never done it since. Afraid his luck’d turn, maybe.” Tompkins smiled. “Know a fellow by the name of Mesquite Harrison?” “Do I?” Sagebrush scowled and spat again. “Is that skunk in town? Then by gosh, I’m goin’ for him!” The desert rat shot a hand to his waistband, where there was a swelling about the size of a revolver. “Why, Perfesser, Mesquite is rank pizen! Yessir. I’ve knowed him to rob prospectors of their grub—it’s a fact! And once he changed the signs over in the Salt Pans, so’s a poor pilgrim took his team the wrong way and durned near died, and that skunk Mesquite robbed him bare. By gosh, anybody who changes water-hole signs in the Salt Pans gits shot on sight! Mesquite knows it, too. He don’t come to town when I’m due, usually—” “He’s not here now,” said Tompkins. “I heard the name mentioned; that’s all. I’ve bought a flivver, and I wish you’d purchase all supplies necessary and get them loaded into the back seat. Strap her down good. We can get off in the morning.” “Gosh!” said Sagebrush, a far-away look in his eyes. “It’ll seem lonesome as hell without them burros—well, s’pose I got to do it. Where we goin’ to?” “Don’t know yet.” “I’d sort o’ like to look over them ledges jest this side the Chuckwallas—over by Pinecate Cañon,” said the desert rat thoughtfully. “Can we find any _crotalus cerastes_ there?” “I reckon so. Find most anything there.” Sagebrush inspected his employer curiously. “Say, you aint so bad a feller when you git off to yourself, Perfesser. You talk real human. Kind of put on dog when there’s any folks around, don’t you?” Tompkins laughed. “I expect I do, Sagebrush. How about water over by that place you mentioned—Pinecate Cañon?” “Plenty right now. Rains aint only jest quit. Another two weeks, and we wont find nary a drap. Cañon ought to look right pretty; too, with the flowers. The desert sure is handsome this time o’ year. All the bugs comin’ out,’ too, so’s you’ll feel to home. Lots o’ tumblebugs over by the mesa and cañon—that’s how come it’s called Pinecate, bein’ the Mex name for tumblebug.” “Ever hear of a fellow named Ramsay, who was interested in mines around here?” “Nope.” Sagebrush rose. “Well, I reckon I’ll go git them supplies, then git my correspondence finished today. See you around sunup tomorrow.” He departed. Tompkins, left alone, opened his two large grips and began to pack one of them for the trip. The larger part of the contents consisted of supplies such as could not be purchased in Stovepipe Springs; there was even a large alcohol stove with plentiful fuel. The packing finished, from a secret pocket inside the grip Tompkins took a letter and began to peruse it carefully, not for the first nor the tenth time. The envelope had been postmarked “Stovepipe Springs” and bore a date of a year past. It was the final portion of the letter which attracted the rereading of Tompkins, however. Enclosed is the deed to the property. I am more than satisfied with the prospects of the location. You will notice that the mining rights revert to the State in most instances, but here I have bought the land outright so there is no question of mineral rights. A man called Mesquite Harrison owned it. I have seldom seen a more beautiful spot, even after the desert rains, for it is filled with all kinds of flowers. What a pity that flowers and water cannot last! Halfway up the cañon there is a huge boulder of pink granite, split squarely in two, with three piñons growing out of the split, and a tiny spring trickling from the piñons. Really a marvel! I understand the spring never fails, though it is too tiny to be of much use. Well, good-by for this time. I’m going to spend two months at the location, and if it has any gold I’ll know by that time. Your loving brother, Alec. Tompkins folded the letter and put it away again, then sat down and sucked at his empty pipe. “Poor Alec—what happened to him, I wonder!” he muttered. “And not a thing to go on. Deed to the property lost. No way of finding its location. Never recorded the deed. How was that deed lost? The letter was mailed here. It must have been in the letter. Therefore—but I’ve no proof. Hell! Once let me get a grip on something definite!” He seized his glasses impatiently, donned them, and left the room. Outside he almost ran into Miss Gilman. She greeted him brightly. “Good morning, sir! I hope your digestion is better today?” “No, it’s worse.” Tompkins smiled. “Please remember to say nothing of my remarks.” “I’ll have no chance,” she returned. “We’re leaving after breakfast tomorrow. Mr. Foster—otherwise Hassayamp—is taking me over toward those hills in the east. He knows of a splendid location for my chicken-ranch. Pinecate Mesa—isn’t that a romantic name?” “Very,” said Tompkins gravely. “Very romantic. It means tumblebug. I may be going in that direction myself, so I’ll hope to see you again.” And before she could say yea or nay to this, he went on his way. CHAPTER IV Sunrise found Haywire serving an early feed to Tompkins and Sagebrush, while the laden flivver rested out in front of the hotel awaiting them. Tompkins expected to drive the flivver—in fact, he was forced to drive it. When they had about finished their breakfast, Hassayamp appeared, yawning. “You gents sure are industrious critters,” he observed casually. “Which way you headin’ for?” “West,” said Tompkins promptly. “We shall impersiflate the great and boundless expanses of the arid lands beneath the setting sun.” “That’s good.” Hassayamp bent a significant eye on Sagebrush. “It’s right healthy out in the flat country. I got to go east my own self today. Well, so long, and good luck to you, Puffesser! Hope you find lots of bugs.” “Travelin’ with me,” said Sagebrush, “the Perfesser wont find nothing else.” “I believe it,” returned Hassayamp acidly. “I sure believe it.” “Meanin’ what?” demanded Sagebrush, one hand slipping toward his waistband. “Meanin’ that you sure know the desert, o’ course! What else would I mean?” Sagebrush grunted and departed, while Hassayamp muttered inaudibly and glared. Tompkins climbed into the flivver; Sagebrush climbed in after him; and with a roar the little car started out of town. One mile north of Stovepipe Springs the main highway turned abruptly to the right, for the Chuckwalla range, and beyond it, the civilized purlieus of Chuckwalla City, thirty miles away. The desert highway continued on ahead, and ran, a flea-bitten track, straight over the northern horizon. “I suppose,” asked Tompkins as they rattled out of town, “you never happened to meet up with a large pink granite boulder, halfway up a cañon, split in two, with three piñons growing out of it, and a little spring at the foot of the piñons?” “Nope,” said Sagebrush after a moment. “Nope, can’t say that I have, but that don’t signify much. Aint no piñon trees around yere except toward the Chuckwallas. Pink granite is most anywheres. I’m right disappointed you aint headin’ east. I’d kind o’ set my notions on looking over that there Pinecate section.” Tompkins chuckled. Then, as they approached the turn in the highway, he swung the car to the right and headed for the distant peaks of the Chuckwallas. “That’s where we’re going, Sagebrush.” “How come you told Hassayamp—” “Because I was telling Hassayamp.” Sagebrush grinned, got out a black plug of navy cut, and bit happily at it. “You and me sure is goin’ to get on, Perfesser. Whoop her up!” Then he grunted. “You heard what he said ’bout it bein’ healthy out to the desert? Durn him! Durn him and Sidewinder and all the rest o’ them galoots! They been tryin’ to keep me out o’ the Chuckwallas for quite a spell back. I bet Hassayamp’s got some claims over there hisself.” “Why have they been trying to keep you out of there?” “Dad-blamed if I know. Jest plumb ornery, I reckon. Maybe they’re afraid I’d meet some o’ the pilgrims they gets located over there, and talk. They allus locates some over there this time o’ year, when there’s lots o’ water and things look good.” Tompkins, who had removed his yellow blinders, squinted out at the desert with frowning eyes, and drove on in silence. He was reasonably sure that in Sagebrush Beam he had chanced upon the one man who might be of incalculable value to him. However, he was not disposed to take any premature chances. His own real business here was a matter for himself alone. The flivver ate up the miles rapidly, ever advancing upon the Chuckwalla hills, which appeared to recede as it approached. To one acquainted with the desert only from the window of a railroad car, this morning’s ride would have been a tremendous surprise. Under close inspection, what appeared to be ground flat as a billiard table was shown to be in reality dissected by almost invisible arroyos and crowned by slight rises. The blinding white desert glare was in fact a spectrum of brilliancy, only visible to accustomed eyes. The eastern horizon was barred by the Chuckwallas, a rather high range which on their western slopes presented only a bleakly dun expanse streaked with purple. To west and north were scattered buttes in splendid colorings of scarlet and lavender and gold, while the patches of cacti across the desert floor made brilliant carpet-spots of vivid green, sprinkled with the raw yet blending hues of an Oriental rug. Here were ocatilla sprays, towering up many feet in glowing blossom; here were opuntias gorgeous with red and yellow clusters, gaunt Joshua trees gay with bloom—all the brief flower-time of the desert was at its height. In a few more days the blossoms would be gone, the myriad flowers springing from the earth would be withered, and the white glare would break only over the brownish-green verdure of brush and cactus in summer garb. Hot as that glare might be, the motion of the car kept its occupants comfortable; and the flivver itself, specially equipped with water-pump for desert use, made no complaint as the miles dropped behind. Now and again Tompkins asked a question, Sagebrush responding curtly. Garrulous as he was at times, the old desert rat was for the most part silent as the desert itself, whose quiet was broken only by the angry chattering of cactus wrens or the occasional shrill call-whistle of a thrasher. Twenty miles had been covered, and the Chuckwalla slopes, apparently as distant as ever, were now broken up into foothills and deep cañons, all a dead dun glare under the white sun, when Sagebrush touched the arm of the driver. “Half a mile ahead the trail branches off to Pinecate Mesa. That’s it, off to the left—reg’lar saddletop. Look out for a dry wash, soon’s ye leave the road.” Tompkins looked at Pinecate. This was a great gaunt saddleback that ran off into the range; he set it down as about ten miles distant, and well to the left. The cañon which gave access to the mesa itself was, as Sagebrush informed him, on the north side and therefore out of sight at present. The turnout was almost invisible, but Tompkins caught it, swerved the car into the looser sand, and was aware of a grunt of assent from beside him. Then he jammed on the brakes and slid into a “dry” wash which at the moment was a foot deep in water, splashed through, and climbed out on the other side. “Hold on a minute,” spoke up Sagebrush. “Let’s have a look at this yere trail.” The car halted, and both men got out. Here, off the highway and sheltered by the mesquite on either hand, die loose earth would bear any “sign” indefinitely, for nothing less than a sandstorm would wash over the tracks. Sagebrush examined the sand attentively, then expectorated and turned to Tompkins, who had donned his yellow blinders as a protection against the glare. “What d’ye make of it?” “Automobile,” said Tompkins. “How long ago, I can’t say.” Sagebrush grunted, at this, and pointed to a series of scroll-like markings which followed the right-hand tire-rut. Then he indicated further prints in the shape of a Maltese cross, which had obviously been made over the scrolls. “Flivver come along yere yestiddy,” he stated. “Last night a sidewinder come along and follered the ruts. Then this mornin’ early a roadrunner come along likewise.” “All obvious but the time, Sherlock,” said Tompkins gravely. “How do you know it was yesterday and not last week?” “’Cause I seen that thar cuss Hassayamp ridin’ out this-a-way yestiddy mornin’ as I was comin’ in to town to mail my postcards. Some skullduggery goin’ on.” “Hm!” Tompkins frowned. “Sagebrush, that mesa up ahead would make a fine place for a chicken-ranch, wouldn’t it?” “Hell of a fine place,” affirmed the desert rat, squinting at the long saddleback. “Danged fine place, Perfesser! Every wildcat and coyote in the Chuckwallas would be pointin’ that way, inside of a week. If a gent was feelin’ real philanthropic and wantin’ to help out the pore desert critters, I’d say start him a chicken-and-egg factory right up yonder. Yessir. That’s like Haywire Johnson done, time he was livin’ down to Meteorite. He started him a egg-ranch—done it to get ahead of some other folks and kep’ it real quiet. Got all his chickens clear from Phoenix and Yuma, danged near a hull carload of ’em, and set up incubators and all that truck. Then he begun to figger on how rich he’d be. Every oncet in a while he’d go out to look for eggs, but dad blame if he got any. He fed them chickens on everything from ground-up lizards to eggplant, and nary a egg come along. Finally he got desp’rit and called in help—and durned if all them birds wasn’t roosters! Yessir, not a female chicken in the lot. That’s how come Haywire went broke and had to come over yere to work for Hassayamp.” Tompkins grinned despite himself. Then he sobered. “Look here, Sagebrush. Remember that young woman at the hotel? They’ve framed up a deal on her. They’re trying to sell her a chicken-ranch on this mesa.” “Sounds like them city fellers. Dad blame, they’d rob a dyin’ man! Serves the female right, too, for havin’ that much money. Females aint got no right to have money. Oncet when I was married and livin’ down to Umatilla, my ol’ woman got ten dollars from one of her relations and went to Phoenix, and durned if she didn’t spend it all in three days. When I trounced her for it, she up and run off with a Mormon from Yuma, and that’s the last of her. Twenty years ago that was, and I been happy ever since, and ain’t looked twice at no females.” “That’s a novel argument, certainly,” said Tompkins. “But I’m going to try and keep Miss Gilman from getting robbed. Are you with me?” Sagebrush rubbed his whiskers, squinted at the sand, expectorated over an unwary Chuckwalla lizard, and then responded without enthusiasm. “Nope! Quicker that there female gits skun and gits out o’ this country, better off I’ll be. I don’t hanker after no females spoilin’ the scenery. Besides which, I aint pinin’ to start no argument with Sidewinder Crowfoot and his crowd, not without they force me into it. Leave the other feller alone, I says, so long’s he don’t crowd ye none.” “All right, then,” said Tompkins briskly, and turned to the car. “Let’s get moving.” They drove on in renewed silence. Tompkins had a new angle on his companion, and was not sure that he liked it; at all events, he perceived that Sagebrush knew his own mind and was not to be depended upon as an assistant under the present completion of things. The desert rat had a certain peculiar philosophy of his own, like all old prospectors, and arguments against it would be as useless as the teeth of a coyote against the shell of a tortoise. So Tompkins held his peace. The flat desert gave way to hills and depressions as they drew closer to the range,
{'title': 'Cactus and Rattlers by H. Bedford-Jones', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}