William Stanley Winthrop woke next morning with a vague impression of having lost something. He gazed indolently at the sunlight filtering through the curtains of his sleeping-room. Beyond the archway to the adjoining room of his suite, a ray of sunshine lay like living gold upon the soft, rich-hued fabric of the carpet.
"Gold!" he murmured. "Mojave Desert! Overland Red! Lost gold! No, it isn't the two hundred dollars I invested in the rascal's story, for it was worth the money. I never spent four happier hours in my life, at fifty dollars an hour. The best of it is he actually made me believe him. I think he believed himself."
Winthrop sat up in bed, yawning. "I think black coffee will be about all, this morning," he murmured, as he dressed leisurely.
He was tying a fastidiously correct bow on his tan oxford when he happened to glance out of the window. It was early, altogether too early, he reflected, to appear in the breakfast-room of the hotel. Winthrop's indefinite soliloquy melted into the rapt silence of imagination. Below on the smooth black pavement pattered two laden burros. On their packs hung dusty, weatherworn canteens, a pick and shovel, and a rifle in its soiled and frayed scabbard. The sturdy, shaggy burros followed a little, lean old man, whose flop-brimmed hat, faded shirt, and battered boots told a tale of the outlands, whispered of sun-swept immensities, of sage and cacti, sand and silence. Winthrop drew a long breath. Such an adventurer was the Overland Red he had talked with the evening previous. The tramp had mentioned a town far out on the desert. Winthrop sauntered down to the deserted office and secured a timetable.
When the east-bound express left Los Angeles the following morning, Winthrop was aboard, uncomfortably installed in the private drawing-room of a sleeper. He had cheerfully paid the double fare that he might have the entire space to himself, and he needed it. Around him, on the floor, in the seats, in the racks, and on the hooks were innumerable packages, bags, and bundles.
"Very eccentric. He must be rich," whispered the wife of a dry-goods merchant from Keokuk, as her husband pushed her ahead of him past the door of the drawing-room.
"Just plain hog!" said the dry-goods merchant. "A man that'll pay double fare to have the whole earth to himself when other folks has to be packed into a berth and suffocate! The conductor said he paid double to Chicago to get that compartment, and he's only goin' out in the desert a little ways. I'd 'a' took it myself."
"Well, we could hardly afford it, anyway," said the woman pleasantly. "We've had such a good time I don't mind sleeping in a berth, Hiram."
They crowded on and finally found their seats.
Winthrop smiled to himself. He liked the woman's voice.
He lighted a cigarette and gazed wistfully, even despairingly, at the "outfit" which surrounded him. He sighed. "Awful accumulation of plunder. Wonder what I'll do with it?"
As the train climbed the grade beyond San Bernardino, he grew restless. Flinging down his cigarette, he began unwrapping his belongings. Out came blankets, extra clothing, a rifle, canteens of several patterns, two pack-saddles, a coil of rope, a pair of high lace boots,—hobnailed, heavy, and unserviceable,—a pocket compass, a hunting-knife, a patent filter, two halters, two galvanized pails, a small, compact, silk tent, an axe, a fishing-rod, a rubber cup, a box of cigars, a bottle of brandy, several neckerchiefs, a cartridge-belt, a Colts revolver of large and aggressive caliber, cartridges, a prospector's pick, a shovel, a medicine-case, a new safety razor, a looking-glass, a clinic thermometer, and a copy of "Robinson Crusoe."
He pondered over the agglomeration of articles pensively. "He was a good salesman," he said, smiling. "I'll be either a juggler or a strong man before I'm through with these things. I think I'll begin now and re-pack. I'll make one glorious bundle of it. That's the ticket!"
Winthrop went to work, whistling cheerfully. He spread the blanket and rearranged his possessions, finally rolling them up into an uncertain bundle which he roped with the weird skill of the amateur packer. He tried to lift the bundle to the opposite seat. He decided to leave it on the floor.
Over the grade and on the level of the desert the train gathered speed. The shimmering spaces revolved slowly, to meet the rushing track ahead. Hour after hour sat Winthrop, reading and occasionally glancing out across the desert. His was the wildest of wild-goose chases. A stranger had told him of a mysterious ledge of gold somewhere out on the desert, and the stranger had named a desert town—the town toward which Winthrop was journeying. Would the eccentric Overland Red be there? Winthrop hoped so. He wanted to believe that this Ulysses of the outlands had spoken truth. He imagined vividly Overland Red's surprise when one William Stanley Winthrop, late of New York, should appear, equipped to the chin and eager to participate in the hunt for the lost gold. Then again, the prospector might not care to be burdened with the companionship of a tenderfoot. Still, the uncertainty of his welcome lent zest to Winthrop's enterprise. He closed the door of his drawing-room and wound through a mahogany maze toward the dining-car.
Next morning, as the train slowed down for the desert town, Winthrop was in the vestibule, peering out anxiously. It did not occur to him that Overland Red knew nothing of his coming, or that the other would be waiting on the station platform if he did. The tramp had not the faintest desire to make himself conspicuous. Some of Winthrop's enthusiasm had evaporated during the hot night in the sleeper.
"Thank you very much," called the lady from Keokuk, Iowa.
"Don't mention it," said Winthrop, disembarking behind the porter with his "plunder." Then, as the Pullman slid away, Winthrop deliberately and gracefully threw a kiss to the dry-goods merchant's wife. "Nice little woman," he reflected. "Too nice to associate with that grampus. Well, I hope they'll enjoy the rest of the trip in the drawing-room. I'm glad I was able to arrange it."
He watched the train crawl down the track. He wondered how long he would be able to distinguish the pattern of the brasswork on the observation car-rail.
Out of the empty distance came the click, clink, clank of hammers and shovels as the section-men, a mile down the track, stepped into work behind the train.
"Prospectin'?" queried a lank individual, slouching up to Winthrop.
"A little," said Winthrop. "It's pretty dry work."
"Uhuh. It's goin' to be hot about noon."
"I suppose so. Will you kindly give me a hand with this monstrosity," said Winthrop, indicating the pack. "The agent seems to be busy."
"Sure! She ain't roped very tight."
Which proved to be true. The bundle, with a kind of animate indifference, slowly sagged, opened, and things began to trickle from it in its journey across the platform. Among the things was the bottle of brandy. The lank individual picked this up tenderly and set it to one side. Winthrop noticed his solicitude, and smiled.
"We can rope 'em up again," said the lank one, suddenly becoming enthusiastic. "My name's Jim Hicks. I'm constable here."
"I see. Well, I'm William Winthrop, from Los Angeles. I'm a naturalist. Will you accept a cigar?"
"Thanks. You want to pack this here bottle, too?"
"Not right away. Whew! It is getting hot."
"Goin' up to the hotel?" queried the constable.
Winthrop glanced along the street. The hotel did not look inviting. "I don't know. I'd like to get in the shade somewhere."
"There's old Fernando's 'dobe down the track under them pepper trees. He's a friend of mine. He ain't to home to-day. Mebby you'd like to set down there and wait for your friend."
"My friend?"
"Why, ain't you waitin' for anybody? You ain't goin' to tackle that bug-huntin' trip alone, be you? It's dangerous out there for a tenderfoot. Now I have took folks out, and brought 'em back all right,—gone as far as them hills over there, and that's a good jag from here,—and I only charge four dollars a day and grub."
"I thought you said you were constable?"
"So I be. Takin' parties across the desert is on the side. How far you figurin' on goin'?"
"I haven't made up my mind yet. Say we go down as far as the adobe you spoke about, as a beginning. Perhaps we can arrange terms."
"I'm on, pard," said the constable.
Under the pepper trees shading Fernando's adobe sat Winthrop and the constable. The brandy-bottle was half empty and a box of cigars was open beside it on the bench. The afternoon shadows were lengthening. The constable had been discursive, voluminous, in his entertaining. Time was as nothing. He borrowed generously of to-morrow and even the next day. He became suddenly quite fond of this quiet, gentlemanly chap opposite him, who said little, but seemed to be a prince of good fellows.
"'S this way," said the constable, leaning forward and waving his cigar. "You're fren' of mine—sure thing. 'S af'ernoon now, but I was plumb fooled this mornin'. Y' know i's af'ernoon now. Thought you was the guy I'm lookin' for. H'overlan' Red—bum—tram'. Wire from Loshangeles to upperan' him if he shows up here. See?"
"You're not quite clear to me," replied Winthrop. "But never mind about apprehending any one. Let's talk about this glorious prospect of sand, silence, and solitude. I feel like a fallen angel. Never mind about arresting anybody. Life is too short. Let's talk of roses."
"Roshes! Huh!" sniggered the constable. "You're kin' of sof, ain't you? Roshes nothin'! I'm goin' talk 'bout business. It's business, my business to talk 'bout it, see? 'T ain't your business. You c'n lissen, an' when I get through, then you c'n talk roshes."
"But what is your business?" asked Winthrop, with an indifference that he did not feel.
"S-s-s-h-h! I'm cons'able. Tha's on the quiet. Thousand dollars rewar' f'r th' appr'enshun of 'Verlan' Red. Thought you was him—hic—hee! hee!"
"Please don't laugh like that. It hurts my feelings," said Winthrop. "It is bad enough to be taken for a—er—tramp."
"Nobody's feelin's—pologishe. 'Course you ain' him! You're jus' a li'l' ole ten'erfoot—perfec'ly harmless li'l' ole ten'erfoot."
"Thanks. May I ask you to have another?"
"Nope. 'Nough's 'nough. 'S time f'r dinner."
"Nearly. Well, if you flatly refuse to drink my health, I'll have to drink it alone, and that's rather egotistical, isn't it?"
"Never. B' Gosh! You're sport. Funny li'l' ole ten'erfoot—perf'ly harmless. Sure, I'll drink all th' health you got, 'n then go home—dinner."
"One will be sufficient, I think," said Winthrop.
"Sufficen' wha'?" And the constable leered cunningly.
"To drown all pangs. Well, here's pleasant dreams."
Far down the line came the faint thrill of wheels and the distant, clear-cut blast of a locomotive. The local freight from Los Angeles was whistling for the "block."
Winthrop glanced at his watch, then at the constable. "What train is that?" asked the Easterner.
The constable's eyelids drooped, then opened languidly. "Railro' train, 'f course." And he slid forward to his elbow and thence to the bench. Presently he snored.
Winthrop strolled toward the approaching train. "Pretty stiff session," he commented. "Now if happy chance should bring Overland Red on this freight, with his burro and outfit; I'll have one reason to offer for wanting to go with him. I've probably saved him some annoyance, indirectly, but rather effectively, I think."
The great oil-burning locomotive roared in, casting heat-waves that smelled of steam, iron, and mechanical energy. The hot air sickened Winthrop.
A car was cut out and shunted to a siding. Then the engine, pausing to drink a gargantuan draught at the tank, simmered away in the dusk, clanking across the switch-points. A figure leaped from the freight-car to the ground. Then out came a burro and several bundles. The figure strode to the station and filled two canteens. Winthrop walked toward the burro. When he of the burro and canteens returned, he found Winthrop stroking the little animal's nose.
"What the—! How the—! Who lost you out here?" asked Overland.
Winthrop spoke rapidly and to the point. "Express this morning. Lonesome again. Thought I'd make a change. My outfit is over at the station. Don't say 'No' before you hear me. You're going to need me—tenderfeet and all."
"But you can't—"
"Wait. The local constable has a wire from the Los Angeles police to look out for you. Perhaps you got this far because you're traveling in a freight-car. No doubt all the passenger trains have been watched all along the line. The constable has been my—er—my guest since morning. He is asleep now. I had to do it. He told me, after either the sixth or seventh glass, I forget which, that he was looking for you. Come on over to the station and inspect my outfit, please. I think we had better vanish."
Overland breathed once, deeply. "Lead me to it!" he exclaimed. "You got my number. I guess you're some lame chicken, eh? No? I'll never call you a tenderfoot as long as I live. Shake!"
The inspection of the outfit was brief. "Take the Colts and the cartridges, and the blankets and the rope. T' hell with the rest."
Away out in the night of stars and silence plodded the patient burro, and beside him shuffled Overland Red and Billy Winthrop.
"We'll fool 'em," said Overland. "Keep joggin'. We'll be over the range before mornin'. Then let 'em find us."
Winthrop, staggering along, felt his moral stamina crumbling within him. "I don't know—about that. Perhaps I'll be a drag to the expedition. I'm pretty tired."
Overland, experienced in the remorse that follows liquor on an empty stomach, swore vigorously and picturesquely. "You'll stick! Do you suppose I'd shake you now after you overcomin' a genuine nickel-plated desert constable? Nix. That ain't my style. You believed me when I said I was comin' to this particular town. It's worth somethin' to have a fella around that believes a fella once in a while. But what I want to know is, why you done up the constable so offhand like, not knowin' whether I'd show up here or not?"
"Why?" And Winthrop smiled wanly. "Because I'm a perfectly harmless little old tenderfoot." And his voice caught as he tried to laugh.
An hour of plodding through the dusk, two hours, and they were at a water-hole near the northern hills. Overland unroped one of the packs, made a fire, and presently had some hot coffee for his companion, who was pretty well used up. Nature was taking inexorable toll for his conquest of the constable.
"You take it easy and don't worry," said Overland.
Winthrop raised on his elbow and gazed at the tiny fire. "Tiger, tiger burning bright!" he quoted.
"This here coffee'll fix you right," responded Overland Red, grinning. "Didn't know I was a pote, did you? Now if I was a doc, I'd give you a shot in the arm that would put you to sleep. Seein' I ain't, it's coffee for yours."
"Do you think they will follow us?" Winthrop asked presently.
"As sure as snakes," said Overland. "And this here water-hole is the first place they'll strike for. They'll wait till mornin' to find our trail."
"When they do find it?"
"I'll show 'em a Mexican trick with a hole in it. You go to sleep, pardner."
The moon rolled down to the rim of the world. The infinitesimal mountain peaks rose slowly along the lower edge of the flat silver shield, black and growing bolder in outline and size as they blotted half, three quarters, finally all of the burnished radiance. Then along the edge of the far range ran an instant delicate light, a light that melted into space and was gone, leaving a palpitating glory of myriad summer stars.
The little fire died down. The barren outland wastes slumbered in the charitable dusk of night.
Overland, cross-legged on his blanket, smoked moodily. His thoughts drifted out on the tide of silence to Moonstone Cañon and Collie and the Rose Girl, Louise Lacharme. For them he planned impossibly. Of them he dreamed absurd dreams.
Out of the flotsam of his pondering came memories of other nights such as this, desert nights on the border ranges of old Mexico—that lost world of his adventurous youth. Mingled with his waking dreams were the sounds of many familiar names—Sonora, Trevino, Nueva Laredo, Nava, San José, Las Cruces, Nogales, Yuma, San Antonio,—each a burning ember of memory that glowed and faded while the music of silver strings and singing girls pulsed rhythmically in the stillness—to break at last into the querulous wailing of a lone coyote. Winthrop stirred restlessly and muttered.
All at once the tramp realized that this easygoing young Easterner, wealthy, unused to hardship, delicate of health, had his battle to fight, as well. "I've knowed 'em to get over it," reflected Overland. "She's high and dry up here on the desert, and I reckon to go where it's higher. He's game, but he's desp'rate. He's tryin' to dodge the verdict, which can't be did. Well, if excitement will help any, I guess he's ridin' the right range. If he's got to pass over, he might as well go quick. Mebby he's the best kind of a pal for this deal, after all."
Overland looked across at the muffled form. "Pardner!" he called. Winthrop did not answer.
"Well, it saves explainin'," muttered the tramp, and he rose quietly. He gathered the few camp-utensils together, rolled his blankets, brushed sand over the embers of the fire, and groped stealthily toward the burro. He roped the pack, glancing back toward the water-hole occasionally. Winthrop slept heavily.
"Guess I'll go back and get that gun," muttered Overland. "I might need two; anyway, he might wake up and plug his old friend the constable before he knowed it. I ain't givin' a whoop for the constable, but I don't want to see the kid get in wrong."
Then Overland, wily and resourceful in border tactics, led the burro round the camp in a wide circle, from which he branched toward the hills to the north. For two hours he journeyed across the starlit emptiness. Arriving at a narrow cañon in the foothills, he picketed the burro. Then he sat down. Why not continue with his pack and provisions? He could camp in the fastness of the mountain country and explore it alone. He would run less risk of capture. Winthrop was not strong. The Easterner meant well enough, but this was the desert.
The blue of the eastern horizon grew shallower, changing to a cold thin gray which warmed slowly to the straw color of tempering steel. The tramp, watching the sky, shook his clenched fist at the dawn. "You, up there!" he growled. "You didn't give me a square deal when I was down and out that time—in Sonora. I had to crawl to it alone. But I'll show you that I'm bigger than you. I'm goin' back to the tenderfoot and see him through if I swing pole-high for it."
It was light when the tramp had arrived at the water-hole. He crept behind a sharp dip in the hummocks. The crest of his hiding-place was covered with brush. It was a natural rifle-pit affording him seclusion and shelter.
With the sun came the faint thud of hoofs as two riders came warily up to the water-hole. One dismounted and stooped over Winthrop. The other sat his horse, silent, vigilant, saturnine.
"Say, where's your pal, that there Overland Red guy?" asked the constable, shaking Winthrop awake and glaring at him with a bleared and baleful eye.
The man on the horse frowned, considering, in the light of his experience as a successful and still living two-gun man, that such tactics were rather crude.
The Easterner sat up, coughed and blinked in the dawn. "Where is what? Why, good-morning! You're up early." And his eye swept the empty camp. So Overland Red had deserted him, after all. He might have expected as much. "I haven't any 'pal,' as you can see. I'm out here studying insect life, as I told you I would be, yesterday. You needn't shake me any more. I'm awake. I can't say that I'm exactly pleased with my first specimen."
"Oh! I'm a specimen, am I? I'm a insect, hey? Well, you're crooked, and you just talk up quick or the calaboose for yours!"
"No. I beg your pardon—but, no. You are in no condition, this morning, to talk with a gentleman. However, you are my guest. Have a cigar?"
The horseman's eyes twinkled. He admired the young Easterner's coolness. Not so the constable.
"See here, you swindlin' tin-horn shell-shover, you cough up where Overland Red is or there'll be somethin' doin'. You doped that booze yesterday, but you can't throw no bluff like that to-day."
"I did what? Please talk slowly."
"You doped that booze you—"
Much to the constable's surprise he found himself sitting on Winthrop's blankets and one of his eyes felt as though some one had begun to stitch it up quickly with coarse thread.
Winthrop, smiling serenely, nodded. "Sorry to have to do it. I know I don't look like that kind, and I'm not, but I happen to know how."
The constable got to his feet.
"I didn't doctor the brandy, as you intimated," said Winthrop. "And you needn't finger that belt of yours. I haven't a gun with me, and I believe it is not the thing for one man to use a gun on another when the—er—victim happens to be unarmed."
The horseman, who had courage, admired Winthrop's attitude. He rode between them. "Cut it out, Hicks," he said. "You're actin' locoed. Guess you're carryin' your load yet. I'll talk to the kid. We 're losing time. See here, stranger...."
Overland, watching and listening from his hiding-place, grinned as the constable sullenly mounted his horse.
Winthrop politely but firmly declined to acknowledge that he had had a companion. Overland was pleased and the riders were baffled by the young man's subtle evasion of answering them directly.
"Size of it is, you're stung," said the man who had questioned Winthrop last. "He's lit out, now he's done you."
To this the Easterner made no reply.
The horsemen rode away, following the circle of burro tracks toward the hills. Winthrop watched them, wondering what had become of his companion. He could hardly believe that the tramp had deserted him, yet the evidence was pretty plain. Even his revolver was gone, and his belt and cartridges. Winthrop yawned. He was hungry. There was no food. But there was water. He walked toward the water-hole.
"Stand still—and listen," said a voice.
Winthrop jumped back, startled and trembling. The voice seemed to come from the water-hole at his feet.
"Over here—this way," the voice said.
Winthrop smiled. If it were a disembodied spirit talking, it was no other than the spirit of Overland Red. The accent was unmistakable. The Easterner glanced round and observed a peculiar something behind the brush edging the rise beyond the water-hole.
"It's me," said Overland, still concealed. "Thought I quit you, eh? Are them fellas out of sight yet?"
"No. They're still in sight. They are too far to see anything, though."
"And you can see them all right, son? That don't figure out correct."
Winthrop laughed. "That's so. Where's the burro?"
"He's hid—right in plain sight up a little arroyo."
"Won't they find him, and confiscate him and the things?"
"Not on your life! 'T ain't exactly healthy, even for constables, to go round confiscatin' outfits they don't know who's connected with. They can't say for sure that burro and stuff is mine. They'll look it over and leave it right there."
"But why did you come all the way back here?" asked Winthrop.
"Seein' they's lots of time, I'll explain. If I had kep' on goin', they would 'a' trailed me, and mebby got a crack at me in them hills. They are two to one, and they could get me at night. Now they'll either give it up, or spot my back tracks and find me here. That's all."
"Perhaps that won't be all," ventured Winthrop, walking toward the ridge where Overland lay concealed.
The tramp grinned up at him. "Mebby not, pardner. You was tellin' Sweeney Orcutt back in Los Angeles that you wanted to get up against the real thing. I reckon you bought the right ticket this trip."
"Will they—will there be any shooting?" asked the Easterner.
"Not if I can help it," replied Overland. "I borrowed your gun on the chance of it. 'Course, if they get sassy, why, they's no tellin' what will happen. I'm mighty touchy about some things. But listen! I'm actin' as your travelin' insurance agent, pro temperly, as the pote says, which means keepin' your temper. If they do spot me, and get foolish enough to think that I got time to listen to any arguments against my rights as a free and unbranded citizen of the big range, why, you drop and roll behind the first sand-hill that is a foot high. After the smoke blows away, I'll be dee-lighted to accept your congratulations."
"I guess you mean business," said Winthrop, becoming serious. "I'm game, but isn't there any other way out of it?"
"Not for me, son. What chance would I have with the whole desert town to swear against me? They're after the gold, and they reckon to scare me into tellin' where it is. I'm after that same gold, and I don't reckon to be bluffed off by a couple of pikers like them."
"The dark one, the man on the bay horse, seemed to be a pretty capable-looking individual," said Winthrop.
"Glad you noticed that. You're improvin'. He is a capable gent. He's a old two-gun man. Did you see how he had his guns tied down low so they would pull quick. Nothin' fancy about him, but he's good leather. The other one don't count."
"What shall I do when they come back?"
"You jest go to studyin' bugs or rattlesnakes or tarantulas or somethin'. Make a bluff at it. If they ask you anything, answer 'em nice and polite, and so I can hear. A whole pile depends on my keepin' up with the talk. I'll figure from what they say, or don't say."
"They seem to be turning. They've stopped. One of them is down on the ground looking at something. Now he's up again. They're riding back," said Winthrop.
"They cut my back trail," said Overland, snuggling down behind the brush. "You go and set down by the water-hole and find a bug to study."
"Not if it can be helped. Otherwise—till me wires are down and me lamps are out. She's desert law out here. They seems to be some chance for a argument about who's goin' to be judge. I'm out for the job myself. I reckon to throw about fifteen votes—they's six in your gun and nine in the automatic. The election is like to be interestin' and close."
"I wish I could help," said the Easterner.
"You can—by keepin' your nerve," replied Overland. Then he rolled a cigarette and lay smoking and gazing at the sky. Winthrop watched the approaching horsemen. Presently he got up and sauntered to the water-hole.
The tramp lay curled like a snake behind the mound. He drew Winthrop's gun from its holster and inspected it, shaking his head as he slid it back again. "She's new and will pull stiff. That means she'll throw to the right. Well, I got the little Gat. to open up the show with."
William Stanley Winthrop, despite his resolution, found that his hands trembled and that his heart beat chokingly. He wanted to shout, to run out toward the horsemen, to do anything rather than sit stupidly silent by the water-hole.
The two riders loped up. The constable dismounted. "Nothin' doin'," he said, stooping to drink.
"No. Nothing doing," echoed the man on horseback.
"That," muttered Overland Red, squirming a little higher behind the bushes, "was intended for me. I know that tone. It means there's a hell of a lot doin'. Well, I'm good and ready." And he lifted both of his red, hairy hands to the edge of the hole and both his hands were "filled."
About then the man on the pony began to ride out from the water-hole in a wide circle. The constable came from the spring. Overland noticed that he kept Winthrop between himself and the sage on the ridge. "That settles it," Overland swiftly concluded. "They're on. I'm right sad to have to do it."
The heavy, space-blunted report of the circling horseman's gun—and Overland calmly spat out the sand that flitted across his lips. The rider had ventured a shot and had ridden behind a ridge instantly.
Winthrop exclaimed at these strange tactics.
"He seen a jack run in there," explained the constable, leering.
"This here's gettin' interestin'," mumbled Overland as the constable unholstered his gun and sauntered toward the ridge. "I got to get the gent on the cayuse. The other one don't count."
The rider had appeared from behind the ridge. Slowly Overland raised his right hand. Then the old fighting soul of Jack Summers, sheriff of Abilene, rebelled. "No! Dam' if I'll ambush any white man." And he leaped to his feet. "Overland Limited!" he shouted, and with his battle-cry came the quick tattoo of shots. The horseman wavered, doubled up, and pitched forward to the sand.
Overland Red dropped and rolled to one side as the constable's gun boomed ineffectually. The tramp lay still.
A clatter of empty stirrups, the swish of a horse galloping past, and silence.
Slowly the constable approached Overland's prostrate figure. "Time's up for you!" he said, covering the tramp with his gun.
"Water!" groaned Overland.
"Water, eh? Well, crawl to it, you rat!"
Winthrop, his heart thumping wildly, followed the constable. So this was desert law? No word of warning or inquiry, but a hail of shots, a riderless horse,—two men stretched upon the sand and the burning sun swinging in a cloudless circle above the desolate silence.
"You seem to kind of recognize your friend now," sneered the constable.
That was too much for Winthrop's overstrung nerves. His pulses roared in his ears. With a leap he seized the constable's gun and twisted at it with both hands. There was an explosion, and Winthrop grinned savagely, still struggling. With insane strength he finally tore the gun from the other's grasp. "You're the only coward in this affair," he gasped, as he levelled the gun at the constable. That officer, reading danger in Winthrop's eye, discreetly threw up his hands.
"Good!" exclaimed Overland, sitting up suddenly. "That was risky, but it worked out all right. I had a better plan. You go set down, Billy. I'll see this gent safe toward home."
Winthrop laughed hysterically. "Why, you—you—you're a joke!" he cried. "I thought—"
"So did the little man with the pie-pan pinned on his shirt," said Overland. "You keep his gun. I got to see how bad the other gent's hit."
An hour later the constable of the desert town led his pony toward the railroad. On the pony was his companion, with both arms bandaged. He leaned forward brokenly, swaying and cursing. "I'll—get him, if it takes—a thousand years," he muttered.
"I reckon it'll take all of that," growled the constable. "You can have all you want of his game, Saunders,—I'm through."
Out by the water-hole, Overland turned to Winthrop. "I'm glad you enjoyed the performance," he said, grinning. "We've opened the pot and the best man rakes her down. She's desert law from now to the finish."
Gaunt, unshaven, weary, Winthrop rested on the crest of the northern range. Overland, looking for water, toiled on down the slope with the little burro. Winthrop rose stiffly and shuffled down the rocks. Near the foot of the range he saw the burro just disappearing round a bend in a cañon. When he came up with Overland, the tramp had a fire going and had pitched the tent. The cañon opened out to a level green meadow, through which ran a small stream. They had come a long day's journey from the water-hole on the other side of the range. They were safe from ordinary pursuit. That evening beside the fire, Overland Red told again the story of the dead prospector, the gold, and the buried papers. In his troubled slumbers the Easterner dreamed of pacing along the track counting the ties, and eventually digging in the sand, digging until his very soul ached with the futility of his labor. Waking, he never lost faith in the certainty of finding the place. He now knew the tramp well enough to appreciate that the other had not risked his own life and nearly killed one of his pursuers through sheer bravado, or fear, or personal hatred. Something more potent was beneath the tramp's motives—some incentive that was almost a religion. So far, Winthrop was correct. He erred, however, in supposing Overland to be obsessed with a mania for gold for its own sake. The erstwhile sheriff of Abilene had dreamed a dream about an adopted waif and a beautiful young girl. The dream was big. Its fulfillment would require much money. There was more of the poet in Overland Red than his best friend had ever imagined.
Three days they rested in the wild seclusion of the cañon. The silence, the solemnity of the place, fascinated Winthrop. The tiny stream, cold and clear, the vegetation, in a region otherwise barren-gray and burning,—the arid Mojave with its blistering heat, the trees, the painted rocks,—ochre, copper, bronze, red, gray, and dim lilac in the distances,—the gracious shade, the little burro, half ludicrous, half pathetic in its stolid acceptance of circumstances,—all had a charm for him that soothed and satisfied his restlessness.
Meanwhile the indefatigable Overland spun yarn after yarn of the road and range, and rolled innumerable cigarettes with one hand, much to Winthrop's amusement.
The third morning Winthrop had awakened feeling so completely refreshed that he begged Overland to allow him to make an attempt to find the hidden papers and the little bag of gold. Overland demurred at first, fearing that the Easterner would become lost or stricken with the heat. Throughout the day Winthrop argued stubbornly that he ran no risk of capture, while Overland did. He asserted that he could easily find the water-hole, which was no difficult task, and from there he could go by compass straight out to the tracks. Overland had told him that somewhere near a little culvert beneath the track was the marked tie indicating the hiding-place of the dead prospector's things. It would mean a journey of a day and a night, traveling pretty continuously.
Finally Overland agreed to Winthrop's plan to make the attempt the following day.
At the foot of the range Overland gave his companion a canteen and a piece of gunnysack wrapped round some hardtack and jerked beef.
"Don't I need my gun this time?" queried Winthrop.
"Nope, Billy. 'Cause why? You don't generally kill a little gopher or a little owl that's settin' up tendin' to his business, because you ain't scared of them. But you will go off of the trail to kill a rattler, a side-winder, because he's able to kill you if he takes a notion. Correct. Now a tenderfoot totin' a gun is dangerouser than any rattler that ever hugged hisself to sleep in the sun—and most fellas travelin' the desert knows it. Why, I'm plumb scared of a gun-totin' tenderfoot, myself. Not havin' a gun will be your best recommend, generally speakin'. Stick to the bugs, Billy; stick to the bugs."
"Well, you ought to know."
"I got seven puckers in my hide to prove what I say. Six of 'em were put there by plumb amachoors in the gun line; fellas I never took pains to draw on quick, never suspectin' nothin'. The other, number seven, was put there by a gent that meant business. He died of a kind of lead poisonin' right immediate."
They shook hands, the battered, sunburned adventurer, rough-bearded, broad-chested, genial with robust health, and the slender, almost delicately fashioned Easterner, who had forgotten that there were such things as lungs, or doctors,—for the time being.
"Say, Billy, you need a shave," commented Overland, as the other turned to begin his journey across the desert.
Winthrop grinned. "You need—er—decapitating," he retorted, glancing back. Then he faced the south and strode away.
Overland, ascending the range, paused halfway up. "Decap-itating," he muttered. "Huh! That's a new one on me. De-cap—Let's see! Somethin' to do with a fella's hat, I reckon. It's easy to run a word down and hole it if you got brains. Mebby Billy meant for me to get a new one. Well, the constable's friend only put one hole in her—she's a pretty good hat yet."
Overland found his slow way back to the hidden cañon. He felt a little lonely as he thought of Collie. He gave the burro some scraps of camp bread, knowing that the little animal would not stray so long as he was fed, even a little, each day.
It was while he was scouring the fry-pan that he noticed the black sand across the stream. Leisurely he rose and scooped a panful of the sand and gravel and began washing it, more as a pastime than with an idea of finding gold. Slowly he oscillated the whispering sand, slopping the water out until he had panned the lot. He spread his bandanna on a smooth rock and gently emptied the residue of the washing on it. "Color—but thin," he said. "Let's try her again."
He moved farther upstream—this time with one of his regular pans. He became absorbed in his experiment. He washed panful after panful, slowly, carefully, collectedly. Suddenly he stood up, swore softly, and flung the half-washed dirt of the last pan on the rocks. "I'm a nut!" he exclaimed. "This livin' in civilization has been puttin' my intellec' to the bad. Too much Eastern sassiety." And with this inexplicable self-arraignment he stooped at the tent-door, buckled on his gun, and started upstream. He glanced from side to side of the steep and narrowing walls as he advanced slowly. He passed places where the stream disappeared in the sand to find some subterranean channel and reappear below again. Rounding an angle of the cliff, he dropped to his knees and examined some tiny parallel scratches on a rounded rock—the marks made by a boot-heel that had slipped. For an hour he toiled over the rocks on up the diminishing stream. "Gettin' thin," he muttered, gazing at the silver thread of water rippling over the pebbles. A few feet ahead the cliffs met at the bottom in a sharp-edged "V," not over a foot apart in the stream-bed, but widening above. Overland scrambled through. On the other side of the opening he straightened up, breathing hard. His hand crept to his hip. On a sandy level a few yards ahead of him stood a ragged and faded canvas tent, its flap wavering idly in a breath of wind. In front of the tent was the rain-washed charcoal of an old fire. A rusted pan, a pick, and the worn stub of a shovel lay near the stream. A box marked "Dynamite" was half-filled with odds and ends of empty tins, cooking-utensils, and among the things was a glass fruit-jar half filled with matches.
Slowly Overland's hand dropped to his side. He stepped forward, stooped, and peered into the tent. "Thought so," he said laughing queerly. Save for a pair of old quilts and an old corduroy coat, the place was empty.
"Fool's luck," muttered Overland. "Wonder the Gophertown outfit didn't find him and fix him. But come to think of it, they ain't so anxious to cross over to this side of the range and get too clost to a real town, and get run in or shot up. Fool's luck," he reiterated, coolly rolling a cigarette and gazing about with a critical eye. "They's another trail into this cañon that the prospector knowed. I got to find it. Billy'll be some interested."