THE WINDSTORM
IN the mountains the storm developed a stunning downpour of rain such
as only the West experiences. Down on the desert there was no rain
whatever, but the wind blew with such terrific force as to flatten
many of the railroad camps, whirl desert cabins around, carry away
chimneys, and send a sand storm raging over the level stretches which
was more than cruel to man and beast. Down there men staggered around
in the blackness, their shelter swept from over their heads, their eyes
and teeth filled with sand--a scene of turmoil and intense discomfort
if not of actual suffering. Up in the altitudes the search party was
soaked to the skin, their supplies were ruined, their stock stampeded,
and the rain eventually turned to a wet snow, with the temperature
lowering fast, while always the terrific wind blew and swept all
movable obstacles before it. All traces of the fugitives’ flight would
be wiped out. Neither Indians nor keen-nosed bloodhounds would be of
any avail when the storm had passed. To search while it raged was a
hopeless task, if not impossible. The telephone wires running out of
the mountains were down, and so no word came from the sheriff after
he had started with the dogs. Squawtooth Canby was the picture of
discouragement.
And through it all, the only two in the entire country who were not
drenched and half frozen or robbed of shelter and stung by particles of
sand were Manzanita and Falcon the Flunky, who sat huddled comfortably
in their blankets, under the protection of an overhanging rock, and
talked and laughed and told each other how she or he had felt when she
or he first began to realize that life would be a wretched drag of time
without the other’s love.
“Isn’t this just great!” shouted the girl above the roar of the storm.
“Magnificent!” The Falcon shouted back.
“I hope no poor, unfortunate souls are out in it!” cried Manzanita, as
a flash of lightning played over her radiant face.
“I hope so, too!” he yelled.
From time to time they dozed through the night, and they had been able
to sleep a little during the afternoon before the storm swept down upon
them. They were as fresh as could be expected when morning came, with
the wind still blowing a gale but no rain or snow falling.
Outside of their retreat the wind quickly cut the snow as no sunshine
would have done at that high altitude. It remained between the rocks
of their rendezvous, however, and the fugitives found difficulty in
getting rid of it. But they made snowballs and rolled them about until
they were of gigantic proportion, then left them outside to be whittled
down by the wind at its leisure. Other small snowballs were used for a
different purpose; and but for the fact that they dared not laugh and
shout they thoroughly enjoyed the pastime.
Inside the shelter of the rocks again, they built a tiny fire on the
stone floor of their half cave, and cooked their breakfast. The fire
soon dried the inclosure, and as they were shut off from the worst of
the wind they were comfortable.
“Well, the rain and snow are over, thank goodness!” said Little Apple.
“But this wind probably will blow for days. I’d like to see the camps
down on the desert. I’ll bet there’s not a tent standing.
“Now, listen,” she broke off suddenly: “I’m going to send Pa Squawtooth
and Mart a message to-day. They can answer with signals; and I know
where we can sneak out and get a glimpse of the desert in order to see
what they signal back. I have my binoculars, thank goodness!”
“I can’t imagine how you expect to get messages to them,” he said.
“Well, I’m going to show you in a little. There’ll be some trifling
risk in going out to send them, but the chances are only one in a
thousand that we’ll be caught. I wonder----” She came to a pause and
tilted back her head. “Say, maybe it’s possible to see the desert
from the top of one of these tall rocks. They’re way higher than the
chaparral.”
“Wouldn’t the trees outside the chaparral obstruct the view?”
“That depends. We’re on the peak of a hill, you know. The trees not
only are scattered in our immediate vicinity, but they’re all much
lower. If only one of us could get up there and find out!”
They walked about looking up at the rocks, and finally the girl
discovered a jutting portion near the top of one of them that she
decided she could rope. She had left none of her accessory equipment
with the saddles, so now she hurried between the rocks and reappeared
with a thirty-five-foot plaited lariat of rawhide.
“Now, if I can get a lull in the wind! But we’re pretty well sheltered.”
She widened the noose in the _hondo_, stood back, and circled it about
her head. The first cast she missed, as the wind whipped the noose from
the target with a fretful _whang_. But when the rope sang from her hand
again the noose settled nicely over the elevated protuberance, and she
drew it taut.
“If you can’t climb it, I can,” she informed him sweetly.
For answer The Falcon laid hands on the rawhide and, with a vigorous
boost from her, started climbing, his knees working against the face of
the rock to aid him.
“You’re all right,” she applauded as he mounted swiftly and
dexterously. “The only fears I ever entertained about you, Tom, were
that you might turn out to be a mamma’s boy. But you ride like a saddle
tramp and you climb beautifully.”
“Huh!” grunted The Falcon, as he reached the noose and clambered to the
summit of the rock.
He stood erect cautiously and looked away on all sides, his feet
planted and his body braced against the wind.
“Well?”
“I can see the desert,” he announced. “And up here one is safe from
being seen by anybody close in the mountains. The slopes of the hill
and the forest around us and the chaparral make it impossible for any
one close at hand to see these rocks. But if some one were stationed on
a distant peak, there might be a different story to tell.”
“I knew that--or suspected it. Don’t worry about the peaks, though. The
desert--can you see Squawtooth?”
“I see a square of green.”
“That’s it. And the camps?”
“Can’t make them out. Say, I’ll have to sit down, I guess. That wind
could almost blow a fellow off of here. Can you tie your glasses to
that end of the rope? Then I can haul them up.”
She did this, and presently he hauled the binoculars in and was
training them on the desert, seven thousand feet below.
“Say, the wind is tearing things up down there!” he reported. “Worse
than up here, I’d say.”
“Of course. Down there it has an unobstructed sweep. It sucks down from
the mountains. Stands Squawtooth where it did, milord?”
“Oh, yes. But the camps! Say, tents are all down and everything in a
mess.”
“Is Stlingbloke any bloker?”
“I can’t see it. The buttes hide it. But Mangan-Hatton is simply flat.”
“Oh, dear!”
“And the sand is blowing over the dry lakes till the clouds of it are
sometimes so heavy I can’t make anything out.”
“See any signs of a search party?”
“None at all.”
“Well, come down. If you can see the adobe at Squawtooth, that’s all we
care about. We’ll make up signals for them to observe, and we’ll tell
’em when to signal. Then you can climb up where everything’s ready, and
get what they have to say through the glasses.”
Falcon the Flunky monkeyed down to her, hand under hand.
“We’ll not throw the noose off,” she stipulated. “Now come in out of
the wind, and we’ll write our message to Pa Squawtooth and include a
secret one to Mr. Podhead Mart.”
“Are you a witch?” he asked, as he followed her in among the rocks.
“Pa’d say, ‘Worse’n that.’” she retorted, tearing and pressing flat a
paper sack in which she had brought some part of their pitiably small
store of provisions.
“Now,” she said, seating herself flat on the rough stone floor and
tucking her feet under her, “we’ll get busy. You say that if you can
get word to a Mr. Winston in Los Angeles, you can clear everything up,
Tom?”
“I think so. Winston knows my signature, and he knows me well enough
to be positive that for me to steal fourteen thousand dollars would be
utterly ridiculous.”
“Uh-huh. And he can get in touch with the sheriff of this county and
show him where he’s barking up the wrong tree.”
“So I should imagine. Men listen to what a man in Winston’s position
has to say.”
“Uh-huh--of course. But listen here: There’s a chance that we have been
tracked to the mountains and that Pa Squawtooth and a gang of men are
somewhere up here now, hunting for us. So if we send a message down to
the desert, and pa wasn’t there, it might fall into unfriendly hands.
“Say somebody else got it,” she continued to speculate, “and decided
to signal ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ or whatever we may direct--and would fool us?
If Pa Squawtooth signals, ‘Yes--everything will be all right if you
come out,’ he will mean it, and we can depend upon it and not be afraid
to show ourselves. But in case of his absence, somebody might get our
message and think it would be smart to deceive us and get us out--when
they’d nab us and give us the ha-ha. See?”
“Yes, all that seems quite probable.”
“And at this distance the glass isn’t strong enough for us to make sure
that it is Pa Squawtooth who is sending the signal, even though he
_were_ sending it and was standing out in plain view. You couldn’t be
sure it was he, could you? It’s more than twenty miles to Squawtooth.”
“Not with that sand storm blowing down there,” he replied. “No; it
would be difficult to tell one man from another.”
“Uh-huh--so you see how easily we might be trapped. But we’ll get
around that, Tom--I always did like that name!--and I’ll tell you how:
“You’ll write a message to Mr. Winston, asking him to clear things up,
and between the lines I’ll slip in a message to Rattle-pod in invisible
ink.”
“Say, sweetheart!” he cried. “Has this experience gone to your head?
Invisible ink! Why----”
“Oh, listen--listen, can’t you! If you knew how many times Mart and I
have played outlaw and robber and sheriff’s posse and lost on a desert
island and games like that, you’d know I mean what I say. But that was
years and years ago,” she quickly added, glancing at him furtively.
“How many?” he asked for the second time, with an amused smile.
“None of your business, smarty! Anyway, it wasn’t so long ago that
Mart will have forgotten. The minute he sees a message from me, with
our secret emblem in one corner, he’ll know there’s a second message
included in invisible ink. So we’ll have him on our side; and no matter
how they try to fool us, we can get a true signal from the old kid.”
“Go on; go on! I give up. If you’re ready, I’ll throw things into
the fire and say, ‘Double, double, toil and trouble! Fire, burn and,
caldron, bubble!’ and brew the magic ink. I sincerely hope the doctors
will pronounce your trouble of the harmless variety, at least.”
“We have about a pint of invisible ink,” she said primly.
“Certainly--certainly. Just keep quiet, now, and don’t think about your
troubles!”
“You’d better kiss me for that,” she suggested, hiding her eyes with
her long, chestnut lashes.
The Falcon paid the penalty of his levity with good grace.
“Now I’ll write at the top of the paper with my stub pencil, and
explain what is to be done in regard to the message you’ll write below
to Mr. Winston.”
“Proceed. Little matters like writing in invisible ink and sending the
messages for twenty miles are nothing at all to you. I realize that
fully. Go on, wonder girl.”
“I don’t half mind your calling me names like that,” she demurely
informed him. “Well, here we go to Pa Squawtooth.”
For a while she scribbled industriously, the paper flattened against a
stiff portion of her leather chaparajos, often wetting the pencil at
her adorable lips, often gazing into space in search of inspiration.
The man watched her, and thrilled all over again at the thought that
she had given herself into his keeping forever, come what might.
She finished and handed him her part of the message.
He read aloud:
“DEAR OLD PA SQUAWTOOTH: Forgive me, pa. Forgive us. But one of us
doesn’t want to be lynched, and the other of us doesn’t want him to
be. Pa, you’re all wrong. The sheriff is wrong. Everybody in the
world is wrong but Falcon the Flunky and me.
“Now listen, pa: You’ll never, never find us. We have provisions and
guns to kill game with, and any amount of water. I’ve known of the
place where we are hiding for two years, and I am the only one in the
country that does know it.”
“That’s a legitimate little fib,” Manzanita interrupted. “Mart knows,
but he won’t cheep.”
The Falcon continued:
“Falcon the Flunky is absolutely innocent, and so is Halfaman Daisy.
The Falcon can prove that for him to be connected with the holdup is
an absurdity. Below this note of mine you will find one from him,
to a Mr. Winston, in Los Angeles, chief engineer for the Gold Belt
Cut-off. Take it to him, and he will confirm what The Falcon says.
“Then when you signal us that this has been done, and that everything
is all right again, we’ll come from hiding. If everything is all
right, hoist a red blanket at noon to-morrow from the big cottonwood
in the corral at Squawtooth, and we’ll trust you and come out. If
that is too soon for you, make it next day at noon, or the next.
Every day at noon we’ll be watching.
“Show this letter to Mart, pa. Don’t fail to do that, because we want
him to ride to Opaco and see Halfaman Daisy to tell him he won’t have
to be in jail long, and that his teams are probably all right. This
is part and parcel of our conditions, this last. You can cut the
paper in two between my part and Falcon the Flunky’s part and give my
note to Mart.
“Don’t worry about me, pa, dear. I’m having a perfectly lovely time,
and I’m so happy. Love to Mart and Mrs. Ehrhart and--I would fill the
paper if I were to continue, so hog the rest of it for yourself.
Devotedly MANZANITA.”
“All right?” she asked. “If so, write yours to Mr. Winston beneath it.”
Accordingly, he took her stub pencil and wrote the following, leaving
an inch space between it and her communication at her direction:
MR. CHARLES E. WINSTON, Chief Engineer’s Office, The Gold Belt
Cut-off Bldg., Los Angeles, California.
MY DEAR MR. WINSTON: I find myself in a rather difficult situation,
and am writing this to ask you to make an effort to set me straight,
if you can do so without telling all that you know about me.
Briefly, I am accused of highway robbery and complicity in the
killing of a gold messenger. The sum stolen amounts to about fourteen
thousand dollars. I think this statement is sufficient for me to
count on your coöperation in clearing me. Hope to see you soon.
Cordially,
FALCON THE FLUNKY.
“Oh, you are going to sign that way!” cried the girl, when he had
submitted his work for her approval.
“Yes--Winston knows what I am called out here. He’ll understand. He’ll
know that signature as well as he would know my right one.”
“You know best about that,” she gave in.
Then in one corner of the paper she made a tiny mark, which looked
almost as if it had been made accidentally, although it was distinct.
“When the _hermano_ sees that,” she said, “he’ll understand that the
paper contains a secret message from his old pal. Now, if only Pa
Squawtooth will cut our two communications apart and give mine to
Mart, as I directed! Everything depends on that--unless we should be
fortunate enough to have the paper fall directly into the kid brother’s
hands. You see, my secret message will be written between the lines of
my part only. For, to bring the secret message out, the paper must be
heated. And, of course, it wouldn’t do to heat the whole of it, for
then the invisible writing would appear on the part that’s to go to Mr.
Winston, and everybody would see it. But if the kid can get away by
himself with my half, we’ll have a loyal henchman in the camp of our
enemies.
“Now we’ll write several of these, all alike; and then I’ll put the
secret message between the lines of my part on all of them.”