THIRST—AND A PLOT.
While the lads in the auto were thus discussing the doleful prospect
ahead of them, Frank and Harry were making good time through the upper
air on the run toward Cow Wells, which they had noted on their maps as
the spot by which they would stop for refreshment. As they neared it in
due time, from a distance of a mile away they noted its desolate
appearance.
“There doesn’t seem to be much of anything there,” remarked Frank, as he
looked ahead of him at the collection of ramshackle buildings that they
knew from their observations must be Cow Wells.
“I don’t see a soul moving,” declared Harry.
“Neither do I,” was the other lad’s response. “Maybe they are all away
at a festival or something.”
“Well, we’ll get water there, anyhow,” remarked Frank. “I’m so thirsty I
could drink a river dry.”
“Same here.”
As the boys neared it, the lifeless appearance of Cow Wells became even
more marked. The timbers of the houses had baked a dirty gray color in
the hot sun, and what few buildings had been painted had all faded to
the same neutral hue. The pigment had peeled off them under the heat in
huge patches.
Of all the towns the boys had so far encountered on their
transcontinental trip, this was the first one, however small, in which
there had not been a rush of eager inhabitants to see the wonderful
aeroplane.
“They must be all asleep,” laughed Harry; “here, we’ll wake them up.”
He drew his revolver and fired a volley of shots.
For reply, instead of a rush of startled townsfolk, a gray coyote
silently slipped from a ruined barn and slunk across the prairie.
The truth burst on both the boys at once.
“The place is deserted,” exclaimed Harry.
“We can get some water there though, I guess, just the same,” replied
the other. “There must be some wells left.”
They swooped down onto the silent, deserted town, in which the sand had
drifted high in front of many of the houses. Eagerly they climbed out of
the chassis of the aeroplane and investigated the place.
“Hurray,” suddenly shouted Harry, rushing up to a large building with a
long porch, that had evidently once been the hotel, “here’s a pump.”
He pointed to an aged iron pump that stood in front of the tumbled down
building. But the boys were doomed once more to disappointment. A few
strokes of its clanking handle showed them that it was a long time since
water had passed its spout. They investigated other wells with the same
result.
The boys exchanged blank looks as they realized that they were to get no
water there, but suddenly the realization that the auto was back there
in the desert somewhere with a tank full of water cheered them.
“They’ve lots of water in the tank,” suggested Harry.
“I guess that’s right; we’d better wait till they come and get a drink
of it. I’d almost give my chances in the race for a big glass of
lemonade right now.”
“Don’t talk of such things, you only make it worse,” groaned Harry.
“Just plain ice water would do me fine. I could drink a whole cooler
full of it.”
“Same here—but listen—here comes the auto.”
Sure enough the chug-chug of their escort was drawing near down the
rough desert road.
“Say, fellows,” shouted both boys, as the auto rolled up, “how about a
drink of water from the tank?”
“Gee whiz,” groaned Billy, “that’s just the trouble. There’s not a drop
in it.”
“What, no water?” exclaimed Frank blankly.
“Not a drop, and Bart says we can’t get any here.”
“That’s right; we’ve investigated.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Keep on to Gitalong, that’s the thing to do. If you don’t get there
within half an hour of our arrival we’ll start out after you with
water.”
“I suppose that’s all we can do,” groaned poor Billy.
“And the quicker we do it, the better,” briskly announced Frank. “Come
on, Harry; ho for Gitalong, and to the dickens with Cow Wells, where
there are no cows and no wells.”
“That’s why they gave it the name, I guess,” commented Lathrop, with a
sorrowful grin.
It grew hotter and hotter as the afternoon wore on. Billy finally,
although he stuck to the wheel pluckily as long as he was able, was
compelled to give it up to Lathrop. After that he lay on the floor of
the tonneau, suffering terrible torments from his raging thirst.
Old Bart sat grimly by Lathrop’s side, encouraging him as well as he
knew how, and the boy bravely smiled at the old miner’s jokes and
stories, although each smile made his parched lips crack.
“Why, what’s the matter?” remarked Lathrop suddenly, as the auto seemed
to slow down and come to a stop of itself.
“I dunno; you’re an auto driver, you ought to know,” said Bart.
“The engine’s overheated,” pronounced old man Joyce. “Look at the steam
coming from the cap of the radiator.”
He pointed to a slender wisp of white vapor. It indicated to Lathrop at
once that Mr. Joyce was right. The accident they had dreaded had
happened. It might be hours before they could proceed.
“What can we do?” demanded Bart Witherbee.
“Nothing,” responded Lathrop, “except to let her cool off. The cylinders
have jammed, and the metal won’t cool sufficiently till the evening to
allow us to proceed.”
“We’re stuck here, then?”
“That’s it, Bart. We had better crawl under the machine. We shall get
some shade there, anyhow.”
“A good idee, youngster; come on, Mr. Joyce. Here, Lathrop, bear a hand
here, and help me get poor Billy out.”
The fleshy young reporter was indeed in a sad state. His stoutness made
the heat harder for him to bear than the others. They rolled him into
the shade under the auto and there they all lay till sundown, panting
painfully. As the sun dropped it grew cooler, and gradually a slight
breeze crept over the burning waste. As it did so the adventurers
crawled from their retreat, even Billy partially reviving in the
grateful drop in the temperature. But there was still no sign of the
aeroplane.
After a brief examination of the engine Lathrop announced that the party
could proceed, and he started up the engine cautiously. It seemed to
work all right, and once more the auto moved forward. They had not
proceeded more than two miles when they heard a shout in the air over
their heads, and there was the _Golden Eagle_ circling not far above
them.
Lathrop instantly stopped the machine, and the aeroplane swept down.
Frank and Harry had brought with them a plentiful supply of water in
canteens.
The boys drank as if they would never stop.
“I never tasted an ice-cream soda as good,” declared Billy.
Refreshed and invigorated, the adventurers resumed their journey toward
Gitalong as soon as they had fully quenched their thirst, and poured
some of the water over their sun-parched faces and hands. They reached
the town late in the evening and were warmly welcomed by the citizens,
mostly cowboys and Indians, who had sat up to await their arrival.
Several of them, in fact, rode far out onto the prairie and, with
popping revolvers and loud yells, escorted the auto party into town.
The aeroplane was stored in a livery stable that night, while the boys
registered at the Lucky Strike hotel. The Lucky Strike’s menu was mostly
beans, but they made a good meal. They had hardly got into their beds,
which were all placed in a long room, right under the rafters, when they
heard to their amazement the sound of an auto approaching the place. It
drew up in front of the hotel and the listeners heard heavy steps as its
occupants climbed out of it and entered the bar.
They called for drinks in loud tones, and then demanded to see a man
they called Wild Bill Jenkins.
“Why, Wild Bill Jenkins is just sitting in a friendly game o’ monte,”
the boys could hear the bartender reply, “but if it’s anything very
partic’lar I’ll call him, though he’ll rile up rough at bein’
disturbed.”
“Yes, it is very particular,” piped up another voice, evidently that of
one of the automobile arrivals; “we must see him at once.”
The boys, with a start, recognized the voice of the speaker as that of
Luther Barr.
“Must hev come quite a way in that buzz wagon of yours, stranger,”
volunteered the bartender.
“Yes, we’ve driven over from Pintoville—it’s a good twenty miles, I
should say.”
“Wall, we don’t call that more than a step out here,” rejoined the man
who presided over the Lucky Strike’s bar.
In the meantime a messenger had been despatched to summon Wild Bill
Jenkins. Pretty soon he came. He was in a bad temper over being
interrupted at his game apparently.
“Who is the gasolene gig-riders as disturbed Wild Bill Jenkins at his
game?” he roared. “Show ’em to me, an’ I’ll fill ’em so full of lead
they’ll be worth a nickel a pound.”
“That will do, Bill,” put in another voice, seemingly Hank Higgins.
Wild Bill Jenkins’ manner instantly changed.
“Why, hello. Hank Higgins!” he exclaimed, “hullo, Noggy Wilkes. Air you
in company with this old coyote?”
“Hush, Bill; that is Mr. Luther Barr, a very wealthy gentleman, and he
wants to put you in the way of making a bit of money.”
“Oh, he does, does he? Wall, here’s my paw, stranger. Money always looks
good to Bill Jenkins, and he’ll do most anything to get it.”
“This will be an easy task,” rejoined Luther Barr. “All you have to do
is to tell us the location of that mine you know about. I will buy it
from you. But we must be quick, for others are in search of it—Bart
Witherbee and some boys that call themselves the Boy Aviators.”
“Why, that’s the bunch that came in here to-night,” exclaimed Wild Bill
Jenkins.
“It is?”
“They are here now.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Sure.”
“Where?”
“Right here in this hotel. I guess they’re asleep in their little cots
now, right over your heads.”
“You don’t think it possible that they can have heard any of our
conversation?”
“Not on your natural, stranger. We’re as safe talking here as in the
Alloff Gastorium in New York. Is that all you want me to do?”
“That’s all. I will pay you well for the information when you deliver
the map to me.”
“I’ll deliver it, never fear. It was a lucky day for me I stumbled on
that old mine. I’ve never been able to claim it, though, for they’d
lynch me for a little shooting if I showed my face there.”
“Those cubs have made good time. We are only twenty miles ahead of
them,” struck in another voice—that of Fred Reade; “if we could only
disable their machine it would come near putting them out of the race.”
“What, bust their fool sky wagon. That’s easy enough,” said Wild Bill
Jenkins confidently. “Listen here.”
But some other customers entered the bar at this point, and the plotters
sank their tones so low that the boys could hear no more.