“NOBODY KNOWS BUT A PINTO CAT”
Patricia liked Kansas City even less than she had anticipated. She
dragged herself through the heat to the office each morning, worried
somehow through her work and returned to her room too utterly
depressed and weary to seek what enjoyment lay close at hand. A
little park was just across the street, but Patricia could not even
summon sufficient interest to enter it. Every cloud that rose over
the horizon was to her imagination a potential cyclone, which she
rather hoped would sweep her away. She thought she would like to be
swept into a new world; and if she could leave her memory behind her
she thought that life might be almost bearable.
No mail had been forwarded to her from Los Angeles, and the utter
silence served to deepen her general pessimism. And then, an hour
before closing time on the hottest day she had ever experienced in
her life, here came the telegram for P. Connolly.
“Gary Marshall mysteriously missing from Johnnywater----” Patricia
blinked and read again incredulously. The remainder of the message,
“evidence points to foul play suspect Hawkins wire instructions”
sounded to her suspiciously like one of Gary’s jokes. She was
obliged to read the signature, “M. Girard,” over several times, and
to make sure that it was sent from Las Vegas, Nevada, before she
could even begin to accept the message as authentic.
How in the world could Gary be mysteriously missing from Johnnywater
when he had flatly refused to go there? How could Hawkins be
suspected? P. Connolly went suddenly into a white, wilted heap in
her chair.
When she opened her eyes the assistant bookkeeper was standing over
her with a glass of water, and her boss was hurrying in from his
office. Some one had evidently called him. Her boss was not the kind
of man who wastes time on nonessentials. He did not ask Patricia if
she were ill or what was the matter. He picked up the open telegram
and read it with one long, comprehensive glance. Then he placed his
hand under Patricia’s arm, told her that she was all right, that the
heat did those things in Kansas City, and added the information that
there was a breeze blowing in the corner window of his office.
Patricia suffered him to lead her away from the gaping office force.
“Sit right there until you feel better,” her boss commanded, pushing
her rather gently into a chair in the coolest corner of the room.
“I feel better now,” Patricia told him gamely. “I received a
telegram that knocked me over for a minute. I didn’t know what it
meant. If you don’t mind, Mr. Wilson, I should like to go and attend
to the matter.”
Mr. Wilson handed her the telegram with a dry smile. “It sounds
rather ominous, I admit,” he observed, omitting an apology for
having read it. “Naturally I cannot advise you, since I do not
understand what it is all about. But if you wish to wire any
instructions, just write your message here while I call the
messenger. There was a delay, remember. The message was forwarded
from Los Angeles.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” Patricia answered in her prim office tone.
“I should like to reply at once, if you don’t mind. And, Mr. Wilson,
if you will be so good as to O. K. a check for me, I shall take the
next train to Las Vegas, Nevada.”
“I’ll ’phone for a ticket and reservations,” her boss announced
without hesitation. “You will want to be sure of having enough money
to see you through, of course. I can arrange an advance on your
salary, if you wish.”
Patricia told him, in not quite so prim a tone, that it would not be
necessary. She wrote her message asking Monty Girard to wait until
she arrived, as she was taking the next train. The messenger, warned
by a certain look in the eye of the boss, ducked his head and
departed almost running. Patricia wrote her check and the boss sent
it to the cashier by the office boy; and telephoned the ticket
office. Patricia read the telegram again very slowly.
“Johnnywater is the name of a cattle ranch which I happen to own in
Nevada, Mr. Wilson,” Patricia said in the steadiest voice she could
command. “Hawkins is a man I sent over to take charge of the ranch
and run it on shares. You’ll see why I must go and look into this
matter.” You will observe that Patricia, having come up gasping for
breath, was still saying, “Scissors!” with secret relish.
Even in her confused state of apprehension, there was a certain
gratification to Patricia in seeing that the boss was impressed by
the fact that she owned a cattle ranch in Nevada. She was also glad
that it had not been necessary to explain the identity of Gary
Marshall. But immediately it became necessary.
“This Gary Marshall who disappeared; do you know him?”
“I’m engaged to marry him,” Patricia replied in as neutral a tone as
she could manage. “I didn’t know he was at Johnnywater,” she added
truthfully. “That’s why I thought it was a joke when I first read
it. I still don’t understand how he could be there at all. He was
playing the lead in a picture when I left Los Angeles.”
“You don’t mean Gary Marshall, the Western star?” The boss’s tone
was distinctly exclamatory. Patricia saw that her engagement to Gary
Marshall impressed the boss much more deeply than did her ownership
of Johnnywater ranch. “That young man is going right to the top in
pictures. He acts with his brains and forgets his good looks. Most
of ’em do it the other way round. Why, I’d rather go and see Gary
Marshall in a picture than any star I know! And you’re engaged to
him! Well, well! I didn’t know, Miss Connolly, that I was so closely
related to my favorite movie star. May I see that telegram again?
Lord, I’d hate to think anything’d happened to that boy--but don’t
you worry! If I’m not mistaken, he’s a lad that can take care of
himself where most men would go under. By all means, go and see
what’s wrong. And I wish, Miss Connolly, you’d wire me as soon as
you find that everything is all right. You _will_ find it all
right--I’m absolutely positive on that point.”
Patricia cherished a deep respect for her boss. She felt suddenly
convicted of a great wrong. She had never dreamed that a man with
the keen, analytical mind of John S. Wilson could actually respect a
fellow who worked in the movies. She left the office humbled and
anxious to make amends.
That evening the boss himself took her to the train and saw that she
was comfortable, and spoke encouragingly of Gary’s ability to take
care of himself, no matter what danger threatened. His
encouragement, however, only served to alarm Patricia the more. She
was a shrewd young woman, and she read deep concern in the mind of
her boss, from the very fact that he had taken the pains to reassure
her.
That night Gary dreamed that Steve Carson stood suddenly before him
and spoke to him. He dreamed that Steve Carson told him he would not
starve to death in there, for his sweetheart was coming with men who
would dig him out.
Gary woke with the dream so vivid in his mind that he could scarcely
reason himself out of the belief that Steve Carson had actually
talked with him. Gary lay thinking of Sir Ernest Shackleton, of
whose voyages to the Antarctic he had read again and again. He
recalled how close Shackleton and his companions had shaved
starvation, not from necessity, but from choice, in the interests of
science. He tried to guess what Shackleton would do, were he in
Gary’s predicament, with four candles and the stub of a fifth in his
possession, and approximately two gallons of water.
“I bet he’d go strong for several days yet,” Gary whispered. “He’d
cut the candles into little bits and eat one piece and call it a
meal. And he’d figure out just how many wallops he could give that
damned rock on the strength of his gorgeous feed of one inch of
candle. And then, when he’d dined on the last wick and hit the rock
a last wallop, he’d grin and say it had been a great game.” He
turned painfully over upon the other side and laid his face upon his
bent arm.
“Shackleton never was shut up in a hole a hundred miles from
nowhere,” he murmured, “with nobody knowing a word about it but a
pinto cat that’s crazy over spiritualism. If Shackleton was here, I
bet he’d say, ‘Eat the candles, boy, and take your indigestion all
at one time and finish the game.’ No use dragging out the suspense
till the audience gets the gapes. First time I ever starred in a
story that had an unhappy ending. I didn’t think the Big Director
would do it!”
He lay for a time dozing and trying to forget the terrible gnawing
in his stomach. Then his thoughts wandered on and he mumbled,
“I’m not kicking--if this is the way it’s supposed to be. But I did
want Pat to have her gold mine. And now the location work is all
covered up--so maybe it won’t count. And some other gink will maybe
come along and jump the claim, and my Pat won’t get her gold mine. I
guess it’s all right. But I didn’t think the Big Director would do
this!”