THE DESERT BUNGALOW
The sun had set and the brilliant gold and rose of a marvelous desert
evening was flooding the sky. Against this flame of color appeared
the outlines of a shack or bungalow surrounded by the few outlying
buildings. As the automobile rapidly drew nearer, the door was flung
back and a woman stepped out to meet them.
Even in the quick glance that he had of her before the automobile
stopped, O’Hara realized she was the most beautiful creature he had
ever seen. Very tall and superbly formed, she carried herself with a
hauteur and coldness that instinctively reminded him of the man in the
car. Her hair was of a Saxon fairness, and waved back from her forehead
in exquisite undulations. As she spoke, her accent too, was more
perfect than O’Hara often heard, and her tone was crisp and impatient.
“I thought you would never arrive.” She addressed herself entirely to
the driver of the car and showed absolutely no curiosity in, or even
consciousness of the passenger in the tonneau. “Is there any mail or
news whatever, Henry?” The man whom she called Henry handed her a large
package of mail. Much of it, O’Hara noticed, bore a foreign postmark.
The woman took it without a word and turned languidly into the shack.
O’Hara’s employer stepped out of the car, and motioned him to do
likewise. Instantly from the side door of the house a small Japanese
slipped quietly out and, entering the car, drove off to a shanty
evidently used as a garage.
“Follow Jo and he will direct you to your quarters,” the stranger said,
motioning toward the softly disappearing Japanese. “My name is Brown
and I shall not need you further this evening.”
He entered the house and in the lighted interior he could be seen
bending over the beautiful woman as she sat absorbed with her mail.
O’Hara followed Jo into a large roomy kitchen which composed the entire
space of one of the outbuildings. A huge Mexican woman was just taking
up the dinner and she gave a low grunt as they entered. Jo motioned
to a white enamel table set for two, which was placed in a corner
underneath a window. O’Hara made mental note that this Brown was
evidently expected to bring someone back with him.
He had no time for further thought, for at this point a huge, burly
man, with a face like a bulldog entered and sat down at the small
table. Another grunt from the Mexican woman somehow made O’Hara
understand that his place was opposite the newcomer. So, having
noticed a basin and towel just outside the door, he gave himself a
good cleaning up and then entered, seating himself opposite his dinner
companion.
For several days life for O’Hara went along in a very humdrum way,
though always under the surface he could detect the current of unrest.
He had a large airy room which he shared with the burly man who was
named Tom Whalen. His days were spent in small activities about the
place and in caring for the car.
The Jap was in constant attendance on his master or mistress, either
serving their meals or assisting at some variety of clerical work
at which they seemed constantly occupied. But there was no request
for O’Hara’s presence in their cabin, and he could only await their
pleasure.
Neither the man called Henry Brown nor his beautiful wife had left
the place for many days. She seemed content to remain within the huge
living room, which, as O’Hara could see through the window, had been
decorated with the soft grays and creams of Indian blankets, with
here and there a splash of scarlet in a brilliant rug. All about were
couches with innumerable pillows, and at every conceivable point a
softly shaded lamp was placed. It was an alluring room and when the
cool evenings of the desert came upon them, O’Hara often watched from a
distance the flames leap and crackle in the broad stone fireplace.
The couple in front of the blaze certainly did not feel the beauty of
the spot; they usually sat apart, as indifferent to one another as to
their surroundings. The woman always gowned herself as exquisitely for
the evening as though in a fashionable hotel. It was evidently second
nature to her to always look her best.
O’Hara glanced in as he passed the living room one evening. She was
leaning back idly in a reclining chair in front of the fire, her full
white throat in startling contrast to the dead black of her evening
gown. She had ceased her constant figuring and was listening to her
companion as he leaned forward talking eagerly, with now and then a
quick gasp of emphasis.
The watching man felt a strange sense of foreboding as he saw a cold,
cruel smile twist the lips of the woman, and as he caught the quick
nervous closing of the fists of the man who was speaking. He paused a
moment longer, watching with intentness the peculiar, almost hypnotic
loosening and clenching of those hands that rested upon the knees of
the man.
Suddenly O’Hara felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and he was jerked
away from the window. Turning quickly, he encountered the bulldog
person of Tom Whalen.