The girl at Silver Thistle

Nevada first believed that the man who crept away from the station-house, and disappeared in the direction of the water tank, was a tramp. She knew that a freight train had passed not more than an hour before, after making the usual stop for water at Silver Thistle. She knew, also, that the train crews, out of regard for the people of the isolated station, as well as for the unfortunate tramps, allowed the latter to continue their journey unmolested. It was not likely a tramp would get off a train at a lonely pump-station in the middle of the desert.

Then who could this man be? Why was he prowling about the station-house at such an hour? These were questions for which she could find no reasonable answer. She stood a full minute or longer in the middle of the little room looking out into the night. The dark, stealthily moving form disappeared and no other sounds followed, no voices, no footfalls. As far as she knew, nothing had been disturbed about the station. Yet she believed the man had been in the room, had passed out through the open window, and that his going had awakened her.

She walked quietly over to the stand near the bed on which had been placed the jeweled wrist-watch, the gold necklace and the rings of the magnate’s daughter. The silvery beams of the moon fell with a reflected radiance upon the jewels. All were there, undisturbed, just as they had been placed the evening before. If the midnight prowler had entered the house, he had not come for the purpose of robbery, of this she felt certain.

Determined that the visit should not be repeated, she quietly lowered the window, fastened it, and dropped the upper sash to admit the cool night air. As she looked out again over the desert waste, there came to her sensitive ear a distant sound like the long-drawn call of a human voice. The call was answered immediately from a more distant point; then silence fell over the desert. Nevada knew the sound could have been made by a pair of coyotes calling to each other from neighboring sand ridges, and this thought, followed by a deep-toned rumble of an approaching train, drove away her fears.

She returned to the sofa and was asleep when the long freight train, drawn by its two thirsty moguls, stopped for a drink at the water tank. She was happily surprised on waking early in the morning, to find Debue already up and dressed, and the room filled by the sun with a glory-fire.

“I beat you,” cried Debue, her eyes sparkling, pink in her cheeks, and an eagerness and buoyancy in her every movement.

“I’m the lazy one this time,” her hostess admitted. “But I’ll soon be dressed.”

“I’m going to help get breakfast,” Debue declared. “I’m well this morning. There’s not a bit of soreness in my hand, and I can do work, real, sure-enough work now.” Debue spoke as if this would be the finest thing in the world. She gave Nevada’s round cheek a friendly pat and hurried out. A little later Nevada heard her tripping lightly to and fro in the little kitchen.

This day proved a happier one for the two girls than the day that preceded it. When the east-bound Limited halted for a drink, the gray head of Jerry Kerrigan was thrust out of the cab windows. There was a broad smile on the old engineer’s face when he tossed down the customary bundle and looked into two pairs of laughing eyes.

“I’m almost glad it happened!” he said, when Nevada told the story of the scorpion’s sting.

“And we are, too!” the pair answered truthfully.

“But I hope it will not happen again,” added the engineer with a hearty laugh as he touched his gloved hand to the throttle of the huge engine. The long Limited moved forward, and as Jerry doffed his cap in farewell he called to the girls, “Have a fine time together!”

“We will! We will!” they answered.

The day went rapidly by, and so did other days that quickly followed, Nevada did not count them, because she wanted that week to last as long as possible. Only one thing troubled her and that was the visit of the mysterious night prowler. She thought at first she should report the matter to her father, but concluded it would only cause him unnecessary worry. For the same good reason she said nothing about it to Debue. When the opportunity allowed, she made an examination of the tracks in the sandy yard. It was this investigation that brought her the gravest concern. The tracks, she discovered, did lead to the window. Moreover, there were grains of sand on the sill, and on the floor of the room.

In view of this discovery she could form but one conclusion. The prowler had entered the house. But he had taken nothing. It might have been that her waking caused him to make an exit before any stealing could be done. He had left Silver Thistle, as he had undoubtedly come, on a passing freight train. Having reached this final conclusion, Nevada dismissed the incident from her mind.

She did not have cause to worry about it again until late in the week. As she and Debue were on the “lookout” beyond the coulee, watching the changing colors paint the desert in a sunset glory, her keen eyes, scanning a distant sand ridge, caught for a moment an object that appeared above the purple hazed clumps of mesquite. She looked at it intently, a full half-minute. An object, with the appearance of the head and shoulders of a man, stood up plainly, remained quiet while she looked, and then dropped down again.

What a lone man could be doing out there in the desert, and why he should attempt to hide, were beyond her understanding. She was at once reminded of that creeping night-prowler and her fears returned. She held her gaze so long and intently on the distant ridge that Debue became curious.

“What do you see, Neva?” she wanted to know.

“Nothing, at least nothing now,” Nevada answered. “I thought I saw something over there on the ridge. It has disappeared.”

In spite of her best efforts to forget the incident, Nevada was silent and concerned as they strolled back through the twilight.

There was one truth on the minds of both that brought a feeling of dismay. This would be their last night together! The week had gone by on swift-flying wings. And what changes that week had wrought. Debue had absorbed the spirit of the desert, the sunshine had fairly poured into her, browning her neck and arms and bringing a healthy glow to her cheeks. So attached had the two become to each other that it was with deep regret that they thought of parting.

Neither of them mentioned the parting of the morrow, but they were reminded of it the next day. Jerry Kerrigan, when the Limited came through, had a letter to deliver. “It’s from the chief,” he said, putting it in the extended hand of Debue. The kindly face of the old engineer wore an expression of soberness. “I really hate to give it to you,” he added. “It’s transfer orders from the chief.” He smiled then and the girls knew what he meant. It was a letter from Superintendent Foster, which, when seated on the kitchen step, Debue read aloud.

My Dear Daughter:

I was glad to get a good report of you today from Jerry. Your quick recovery speaks well for the little doctor lady’s treatment and the good desert sunshine. I shall expect to see a healthy coat of tan——and a few freckles wouldn’t matter.

This is to inform you, though, that the “Special” will be due at Silver Thistle at nine-forty-five, Thursday evening. Be ready to leave at that time. I have been lonely without you. Give my sincere regards and best wishes to your little comrade, and to her mother and father. Good-by, until Thursday evening.

Your devoted Father.

There were tears in the eyes of both girls when Debue finished reading. Kind as was the message, it brought upon them the realization that their time for being together could now be counted by hours and minutes. No comments were offered, none were needed. But hand in hand, the activities of the day were resumed with increased vivacity.

Sunset came again, and with it the changing colors of the painted desert, the cooling breath of night, the full-throated, ever-delightful melodies of the nightingale.

The girls had hoped to go together to the “lookout” beyond the coulee for this last evening together. But it so happened that Nevada had to operate the gasoline engine in the pump-house for nearly an hour after her father went out on the usual run. To avoid the possibility of missing the sunset glories, Debue concluded she would go alone, and wait there for Nevada. The two had been over the trail so many times of late that neither had any fear of losing the way.

“I’ll join you in half an hour,” Nevada said, “so go ahead, Debue. Just remember to swing round to the right after you cross the mesa and drop down into the coulee.”

“I’ll get there all right, even if I am a tenderfoot!” Debue said merrily as she struck out into the desert. From the pump-house door, Nevada saw the trim figure of her friend disappear in the crimson glow.

It proved to be three-quarters of an hour before the tank was filled. But with a true railroader’s sense of duty, Nevada did not leave until the gage indicated that the water level had reached the highest point. Then she shut down the engine, closed the door, tossed off the grease-stained apron that had protected her dress, washed her hands, and hurried out across the desert. The first purple shades of dusk were lowering. Night was not far off, and fearing that Debue would grow tired of waiting, Nevada quickened her steps. Nearly across the mesa, her pace slackened. She observed that the strong north wind of the day had blown new sand across the path, until in places the trail was completely obliterated. At the coulee, Nevada halted abruptly, and uttered a low cry of alarm. Debue’s tracks had disappeared!

Anxiously watching for footprints Nevada ran on until the trail came out plain again. Though she stooped and looked searchingly, she could find no fresh tracks to indicate that Debue had lately passed. She got to her feet, rigid and tense, and lifted a fear-filled face to the darkening sky. “Can it be possible,” she asked herself with a feeling of terror, “that Debue is lost—lost out here on the desert!”