THE MAN IN THE DESERT
"Say, Dick," requested Paul, "just calm down a bit, and sort of explain
things."
"Yes, he's got me going," added Innis, pausing in the act of frying some
eggs for supper.
"Why, it's plain enough," said Dick. "Here is a piece of a San Francisco
paper, and it has in it an account of this railroad lawsuit. The case
come up in 'Frisco, you know," he added. "The paper was probably tossed
out of the car window by some man who got tired of it, and I almost wish
I hadn't found it."
"Why?" Paul wanted to know.
"Because it makes me feel bad. To think that all my hard work is thrown
away."
"But is it?" asked Innis.
"It looks so. This is how I figure it out. As soon as Uncle Ezra finds
out he couldn't block my game to save Mr. Wardell's fortune by getting
the legal papers away from me, he starts off on a new tack. He has his
lawyers look up other means for getting control of this railroad, and
they find one, it seems.
"From what I can gather, by reading this article, a new witness has
cropped up. He gave testimony in court that knocks out Wardell, and
makes his claim valueless. Under the new ruling, Uncle Ezra and those
associated with him can go ahead and, inside of a week, get possession
of the railroad stock so that Mr. Wardell can't redeem it.
"You see, it was this way: This Wardell had this stock left to him by
his father. It was worth considerable. In fact, it virtually made him
owner of the railroad, though of course he didn't operate it. Then,
foolishly, he puts up that stock as security for a loan with Uncle Ezra,
and invests the money in something else.
"He loses it--I guess Uncle Ezra intended he should, and of course if he
can't pay it back Uncle Ezra will get the railroad. But from what my dad
and I understood there was a time limit set by which Wardell would have
another show for his white alley--I mean that he'd get a chance to go to
court, and say he had been cheated and would like more time to raise the
money to buy back his railroad stock.
"That's the plan I've been working on, and that's what these legal
papers covered. Now it seems this new witness makes it all look like an
ice cream cone on a hot day. Unless the money is paid inside of a week
Wardell will forfeit all his stock to Uncle Ezra. Oh, it's a cute game,
all right, and there doesn't seem to be any way to beat it," said Dick,
bitterly.
"Maybe if we hurried into San Francisco," suggested Paul, "and saw this
witness, we could explain things to him, and ask him to hold off until
Mr. Wardell could get here."
"No chance of that," said Dick. "Wardell is in South America--the land
knows where. We can't reach him in time."
"But if we could find this witness," persisted Paul.
"He's disappeared, so this newspaper article says," remarked Dick.
"That's another funny part of it. It looks like a hold-off game,
spiriting the witness away in that fashion, and yet what can we do? Even
if we got to 'Frisco before the end of the week, which we could easily
do, by abandoning the car and taking a train, what good would it do? We
couldn't offset the testimony of this witness."
"It does look as though we were up against it," assented Paul.
"Good and hard," agreed Dick.
"Well, let's have grub," suggested Innis, practically. "It's almost
ready. And maybe after supper we'll find a way out."
But even after the meal, eaten amid the silence of the salt desert,
their gloomy thoughts were not dispersed. They sat about, moody and
quiet, until Paul, with a sarcastic exclamation, cried out:
"Say, this is the limit. Let's do a song and dance, or something like
that."
"There is a phonograph stowed away somewhere among my things," said
Dick with a laugh that had no mirth in it.
"Trot it out and give us a tune," urged Innis, and, after a moment's
thought, Dick complied. Anything was better than sitting about, thinking
gloomy thoughts. And really he felt keenly his failure so unexpectedly
disclosed by that stray piece of newspaper.
All his hard work--his skill in keeping the legal documents away from
the cunning emissaries of Uncle Ezra--had gone for naught, in case it
were true what he had read. And he had no reason to doubt it. The paper
was a reliable publication, and the names of lawyers were mentioned who
had a national reputation.
Of course, in a measure, it was a case of "high finance," perhaps not
strictly moral, but perfectly legal. Certain interests wanted control of
the railroad, and even Uncle Ezra might be simply a catspaw in the game.
Yet it seemed certain that unless something were done--some sort of
legal protest or injunction entered--the Wardell fortune would be wiped
out. And this Dick did not want to see happen.
Paul was at the phonograph, adjusting the mechanism. He had slipped in a
record containing "My Old Kentucky Home," and soon its strains were
vibrating out on the desert air.
The phonograph was not particularly good, for it was too small to have
any sweetness, and yet, even with that handicap, the boys enjoyed the
"canned music," as Dick called it.
As the chorus welled out, they joined in with the voice of the singer
coming from the horn.
"'My old Kentucky home--good night!'"
There was a pause, and as the chorus was repeated more softly, the boys
lowered their voices. They had sung in the glee club at Kentfield
Military Academy, and their tones were true and pure. In the darkness of
the starlight night, on that lonely desert, the music seemed to gather
strength and sweetness.
Then, as the chorus neared the end, the three chums were startled to
hear, off in the distance, another voice joining in with theirs,
blending perfectly, in a rich baritone.
They stopped singing, so startled were they, for they thought themselves
all alone, and the unseen voice carried the air alone, accompanied only
by the phonograph.
Then, as the last echoes died away, Dick Hamilton jumped to his feet and
called out:
"Who is there?"